


Thomas Knopf: an essay

by TheWeepingTurtle



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Ascalon Club, Cure, Edgar Swansea - Freeform, Elisabeth Ashbury - Freeform, England - Freeform, Gen, Guard of Priwen - Freeform, Jonathan - Freeform, Jonathan Reid - Freeform, London, OCs - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-World War I, Skal, Vampire Geoffrey McCullum, Vampire Hunter, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Vampyr, bad ending vampyr, blood-thirsty jonathan reid, doctor jonathan read, dr jonathan reid, ekon, epidemic, geoffrey mccullum - Freeform, myrddin wyltt - Freeform, pembroke hospital, priwen, sean hampton - Freeform, skal sean hampton, st paul's stole, vampire, vampire edgar swansea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21175130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeepingTurtle/pseuds/TheWeepingTurtle
Summary: Jonathan Reid should have known that the only cure for his perpetual agony of un-life would be to die again. In the beginning he’d attempted it, had wanted it, had begged for it. It would be a lie to say he did not yearn for such a thing now, but she had made him promise. Yes, as she stood in those flames Jonathan knew exactly what his beloved Elisabeth had wanted: find a cure. Yet his insatiable lust for blood prevented him from ever drawing near to an answer. It was four years after Elisabeth Ashbury’s sacrifice when Jonathan Reid finally understood what the answer was. Unfortunately, the answer was tied up once again to a place he’d never have wanted to return to: London, England. The year? 1922.





	1. A Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fanfiction that is posted as I write the chapters, thus upload dates will be sporadic (all chapters ARE planned, however). I'm not sure how people will receive this fanfiction as the fandom for Vampyr is pretty small, but we'll see. Please comment to tell me what you think, and critique is welcome! Thank you. 
> 
> P.S. Chapter 1 is short only because it's the introduction. The other chapters will be longer.

The year was London, England. The place was 13 July, 1922. The enemy was the people and the truth was the government. What mattered at all? The war was over, and so was the epidemic. Man’s world was recovering, or was it? To a vampire, it was always the same. The world didn’t turn, it was pushed.

  
Jonathan Reid rode in a railcar just like any man. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other travelers didn’t notice. They were too busy wondering about when they’d get home. They were too busy thinking about all the things they’d have to do when they got to where they were going. Former doctor Jonathan Reid watched their faces with uninterest. He knew where their lives would end up. He knew where his had.

Jonathan Reid walked the streets of London just like any creature. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other men didn’t notice. They were too busy tending to their jobs, their wives, their children, their lives. Doctor Jonathan Reid noticed this too. He was also uninterested in this. It wouldn’t be long until the sun rose, he noticed again. He did a lot of noticing. He noticed things. He even noticed things that shouldn’t be noticed. What shouldn’t be noticed, one might ask? 

It was 4:59.

It was 5:04

It was 5:11.

_ What is a monster? _

Jonathan Reid wiped his mouth as he left Rhode Ct. behind. Blood.

I’m_ a monster. _

Jonathan Reid walked the alleyways of London just like any monster. He was normal, he was believable, and he smiled. The other men didn’t notice. They were too busy being dead.

* * *

The wind was deathly still as a thick fog began to roll in between the buildings of the city. The streets were empty, save for one or two drunks or stalkers, and so were the lamps where little orange flames were supposed to flicker. No-one had lit them, it seemed.

Jonathan found that he couldn’t yet hear the screams of the unlucky or the howls of the undead. Had the Skal epidemic truly been pacified, or was the dead only silent in this moment? Even if the former were true, there would always be the lesser vampires. They existed. Always. 

Pembroke Hospital had been abandoned three years ago when it became apparent that obtaining funding was a bleak hope--especially when it turned out that the head administrator was a vampire. Even the mortally ill wouldn’t dare step foot within its walls, and so the rusty gates closed once more. The windows were boarded up and the gates had been locked tight. It was both an unfortunate and pleasant sight for former doctor Jonathan Reid, as he’d come here in the hopes that he’d be welcomed by one Doctor Edgar Swansea, administrator, researcher and Ekon extraordinaire. Jonathan had managed to pick up an old newspaper on his way there, finding that the doctor had been killed years back by Priwen. It didn’t matter. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. He broke the lock and once again entered Pembroke’s rusted gates. Skal shrieks and yowls rose up like wild dogs hunting their prey. The doctor didn’t smile. He knew that he’d have to kill them. And he did.

He never wanted to return to London. There were many things that had happened here—especially within Pembroke’s walls—including his own death. What he wanted didn’t matter anymore. Why? He had a promise to fulfill. As she burned, Elisabeth’s eyes had made him promise this: find a cure for the plague that is vampirism. He’d tried for the next few years, but it had mostly been in vain. That is until now. After returning to Elisabeth’s castle in a search for _ something _ , Jonathan found an old tome labeled _ Thomas Knopf: an essay _ within her vast library. It mentioned King Arthur’s blood. His _ blood _ specifically. Now _ that _had caught Jonathan’s eye. It didn’t take him long to read through it, and what he read on the scientist’s theories and findings were spectacular. Why wasn’t this mentioned anywhere else, even if it were just a theory? Why hadn’t Elisabeth researched into this more? He’d seen her binders, but there was nothing. He had no other choice, Jonathan decided, this was it. He had to return to London. 

As he passed the patients’ ward and began to climb up the creaking stairs towards the offices, Jonathan paused. Before he’d left London in search of Elisabeth, this had been his last bastion. Not a soul graced these corridors anymore, at least not a living one. He ought to have felt a pang in his heart at the sight of it, but he felt nothing. His heart was empty. It was him who had contributed to the fall of this place. “I’m sorry.” And then he ascended the stairs. 

Upstairs wasn’t faring any better than the hallways below. Dirt, grime and discarded yellowed papers covered both the walls and the floor. Jonathan found himself skimming his fingers along the wall as he walked. Grime. Blood. Dust. Dirt. It was everywhere. How could this place have been abandoned for only a few years? It looked like it had been lost to time for more than a decade. Look, there the floor caved in. Look over there! The ceiling allowed morning rays to peek through. Had there been a battle here? Did Edgar Swansea put up more of a fight than Jonathan would have given him credit for, or had the Skals simply made themselves comfortable? 

“Oh Swansea,” Jonathan said with slumping shoulders and dragging feet. The sun was rising, and with it his exhaustion. “I should have let you perish that night at the theatre.” He stopped in front of the old administrator’s office. _ Crrnnnch, crnch, crnch. _Inside, a Skal lay slumped over a small form in front of the desk. Was that a cat? A small dog? It sat up and began to sniff the air. Jonathan made a face. “Maybe one of the other physicians would have taken over this place for you. Maybe things wouldn’t have turned out quite like this.” 

The Ekon made short work of the Skal. It put up little resistance. Had it wanted to die?

Jonathan searched the office, but there was nothing to find. Perhaps Priwen had cleaned out the shelves, or perhaps any papers had simply been lost through time. It wasn’t all that disappointing, but still Jonathan felt another pang in his chest. Since he’d been turned, Swansea had been his first friend, his first partner. It was Jonathan’s fault that Swansea, no, Edgar was gone. Perhaps that was for the best?  
And what of Elisabeth? Elisabeth Ashbury? Jonathan regretted not stepping forward to save her from the fire’s grasp. He had done nothing, and perhaps it was because he felt that he was not worthy? After all, he’d murdered half the scum of the East End Docks and a third of the residents of Whitechapel. He had deserved her death, and maybe… He sat at the desk and rubbed at his temples. What was he doing here? What was he doing here _really? _“I’ve lost touch with reality,” he mimicked from all those nights ago. “Just a sliver. I want, no _need _just a…” He didn’t finish. It was clear. He’d lost his humanity, and perhaps he owed it to Elisabeth to gain some of it back. She had made him promise, through her death, to locate a cure for his affliction, for the affliction of those all affected by the eternal curse. “But how?”

He knew the answer. He knew that by the second night of his return to London that he’d have to begin a journey to regain that which he lost. Jonathan found himself leaving Swansea’s office and heading down the hall towards his own. Interestingly enough, the room fared not as bad as he had thought. Of course, it was still trashed by both time and defeat, but there was a bed. There was a bed and he was so very tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and please tell me what you think! This chapter was mostly intended to set the mood, and the chapters to come with be more dialogue heavy. They will also contain more characters and less, erm... philosophical text. Edit: This was a lie. Philosophy. Philosophy all the way. This is about vampires, damn it!


	2. Tick, tick, tick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Edited: Nov. 13, 2019.  
Edit notes: I fixed some grammar errors and line breaks.

Awaken. Rise again.

Dust motes shimmered as they fluttered in an illumination of moonlight. _ I overslept, _Jonathan noted with a twitch of his lips. The night was young, yes, but it was never quite young enough. He stood. 

The utter silence was unnerving. Back when the epidemic began, he remembered the screams and howls and shouts and gunfire. Now there was nothing. Jonathan felt his unholy skin crawl. That was until he heard it: men’s voices. Below? 

His vampiric senses led him to a window and he peered out through cracks in the boards. There were ten, he blinked,no, make that twelve men. A tall one stood out, his sturdy frame held up with two legs as thin as sticks. At his side stood a leaner man, his frame slightly smaller yet still imposing. Jonathan’s intuition sensed that these two were leading the others. They stood apart, dressed more importantly, and looked to be assessing the hospital with hawk-like precision. Priwen? This quickly? Impossible.

  
But it wasn’t.

  
Cursing his bad luck, Jonathan berated himself on slipping up. Perhaps he’d missed a scout on his way here, or maybe a Skal escaped and caused a ruckus. Maybe they had been waiting for him to return? Ah yes, that had to be it. He’d left quite a mess behind when he’d escaped the Great Hunt in pursuit of Elisabeth. This had been planned. They’d been waiting. 

Johnathan made his assessment in a matter of seconds, and seeing no easy escape, he quickly grabbed his suitcase and hurried down the hallway with his coat fluttering behind him in his wake.

Maybe he was being too hard on himself. If McCullum had left King Arthur’s blood anywhere when he’d fled, if he left it at all, it would be there. He knew that the best lead he had was at the--God help him and Devil take him--Priwen Headquarters. That’s where McCullum had gotten it, right? Hard to tell, but he’d have to check.

What was that?

Jonathan stopped as he sensed three heartbeats enter the hospital from below. Damn.

...

“Do you really think it’s him?” said Captain Andrew Wilson. His accent, was vaguely Scottish. Andrew slapped his arm with a bundle of papers and side-eyed his leaner partner. “What’d the report say? Y’sure it’s reliable?”

The other man, Lieutenant James Cook, hunkered down beside him and studied the boarded up windows as three of their scouts began to infiltrate. If it _ was _him, they’d run right back out, simple as that. At least then they’d know what or who they were up against. They had to be sure. There was no running in blind. “Completely sure, Willy. Man saw Dr. Reid exit a railcar. He said he’d come here, and I’m not surprised he did.”

  
“Damn. Who’s the info comin’ from?”

  
“Mmm… Said his name was Hooks. Didn’t give a first name, but I’m pretty sure there was a Hooks here. It’s not hard to forget a colored workin’ in a hospital,” said the lieutenant.

Andrew didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. The pistol in his hand was enough. 

...

It wasn’t Jonathan’s goal to kill them, and he also didn’t have the time. He could feel the ever-present hunger, the _ thirst _ , welling back up into his very core. It happened almost every night, and it called to him. He couldn’t ignore it. He never could. _ Which is why I must fulfill that promise. She knew I was a monster. I knew it too. _

And the sun… well the sun did what it wanted. It was a race against the clock. It was _ always _that damned race.

Jonathan slowly walked towards the other wing on the second floor, his eyes focused solely on this: a broken window. The best part? It wasn’t boarded up. He guessed that some Skal had destroyed the barricade some time ago. Perfect.

“Upstairs,” he heard someone from below say. “I heard somethin’.”

“I’m not doin’ it…”

“I’d rather go to Hell.” There was a point when it appeared they were finished. “Damn you, alright, but you—Shit! There it is again!”

“Wha—? NO! Don’t—!”

_ Ratatatatatatata! _

_ Cshh… _

_ Crkplink! _

“...What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Light filtered through the ceiling like hundreds of twinkling stars, but Jonathan was outside before anyone could venture upstairs to check.

The rest of the guard, save for one, rushed the hospital at the sound, finding nothing but incompetent guardsmen and an empty lot. Jonathan, suitcase in hand, stood at the end of the street by the gated entrance to the docks. The wind had begun to pick up, and with it the fog swirled and rushed along abandoned sidewalks and alleyways. If there was a biting cold, he felt none of it. His eyes met Andrew’s. 

“I’ll find you someday, Jonathan Reid! I’ll find you and gut you for what you did to McCullum!”

Then Jonathan was gone.

* * *

The wind howled as fog advanced on the streets like a high tide. 

Jonathan held the suitcase close to his side as he made his way down Willoughby Way, then Fifteenth Street, then—no. He slid into an alleyway and tucked in his jacket just as a patrol passed, his hands gripping the suitcase like metal claws. 

“Damned leeches are gettin’ bolder every day,” said one guard to the other.

“Why you think?” 

“Hell if I know.”

A puff of smoke rocketed into the air. “Mm.”

Jonathan waited a few more moments before he returned to the street, his pace much brisker than before. _ I’d very much like to avoid a row. _There was no time. There was never enough time.

His walk lasted only a few minutes longer.

_ Well shit. _

Two guardsmen stood on either side of the entrance to Priwen. Was that a problem? Not particularly, but the silver-painted gates rose up high enough to prevent even a vampire from jumping over, and salt lines cut through the cracks in the cobblestone. Someone had strapped wooden crosses to the metal bars. _ You bastards. _ He should have known. No, he _ knew. _He sensed it wouldn’t be so easy, but he would be damned a second time if he wasn’t going to try.

Jonathan glanced down either side of the building. High walls and gates, no windows, lots of guards. Aha! He jumped down from his perch on a balcony, his collision with the ground going mostly unheard. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Wha… What the? Where the hell did you come from? State your business!”

Jonathan licked his lips and smiled. “I’ve been sent by St. Paul’s Stole—“

“The what?” grunted one guard, his pistol already in his hand. “You don’t look very saintly to me.”

“I can assure you that I am.” Jonathan produced a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a yellowed thing, hardly noteworthy, but as with everything it was what was written on it that mattered. 

“It’s blank.” The guard shook the paper. 

“Exactly.” Jonathan’s fist cracked him right in the nose.

The other guard whipped out his pistol. “What the fuck!?” 

“Oh no, we can’t have that,” said Jonathan, his voice taking on a darker tone as he rubbed his knuckles. _ “Your friend here fainted from too much drink. You’re going to remain here and keep watch.” _

The guard didn’t lower his weapon even as his eyes began to cloud over. “I’m not goin’ ta—”

Jonathan bared his fangs. _ “Remain here and keep watch.” _

“Yes… Yes sir. Please come inside.”

Forty-three minutes until the next shift change. He had time.

Jonathan stepped over the salt and adjusted his jacket. The inner courtyard was littered with guards either training or preparing to march out, and training dummies were set up along the brick walls, their forms hardly human yet their purpose clear. At the end of the line of dummies, someone had shoved a stake into the middle of the burlap. Compared to what he’d seen four years ago, the courtyard was… lively. _ Quite the turnout _ , Jonathan noted. He’d like to think that all this effort was for him. _ How thoughtful. _

The inside of the main building’s first corridor was rather bare save for silver name plates set into the sides of the barren walls. Beside them were old photographs, and in some cases paintings. The sight of them hurt his eyes. _Thomas Hughes, May 1851. Harry Fernsby, January 1879. Edward Anderson, Oct 1903. Geoffr—_ _M——um, N—em-er 1—8. Andrew Wilson, current. _Jonathan pulled his eyes away and continued down the hallway. This wasn’t it.

He began to sift through each room, that dreaded timer ticking away inside his skull. 

_ No. _

_ Nope. _

_ Not there. _

_ Hurry up! Find it, Jonathan! _

He made it through three more hallways before he was stopped again by the screech of rubber heels.

“Hey you there, stop! Why aren’t you wearing your uniform? Present your pass!” 

Jonathan grit his teeth and turned around with a smile. “...Hello. I am Joseph Richardson. Did the cardinal not..? Ah, of course not. He’s always forgetting.” Jonathan held out his hand to the approaching man. “I’m with the Stole.” His eyes caught a glimpse at the badge on the man’s shoulder, just as he turned — a lieutenant.

The man, a lanky bloke with a blond mop of hair, only stared back at him. “I’m Lieutenant Cook.” He paused. “Alright Joseph, what’s the Stole want with Priwen?”

“Ah, I’m here to speak with your scholar. The cardinal is interested in a certain artifact, you see. Is he in? His name was…”

“Filson.” Lieutenant Cook finished his sentence.

Jonathan nodded. “Yes, that’s the man. Would you kindly—”

“No.” Cook shook his head.

“No?” 

The lieutenant crossed his arms. “Funny thing is, _ Mr _ . _ Richardson, _ there’s no Filson working at this base. Of all people, I should know.”

Jonathan’s smile fell. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Then it hit him. “I see.”

The lieutenant’s lips parted crookedly. “Whatcha got in that case of yours, _ Mr. Richarson? _Actually… let me start with the man you hypnotized right in front of the fucking compound!” 

“I’m not here to fight you, Lieutenant.”

“Oh _ really? _ So what are you doing here, you fucking leech?”

Jonathan didn’t say a word. Since he’d arrived he hadn’t seen or heard the whisper of the elder one’s—King Arthur’s—sacred blood. It just wasn’t here. 

“I ought to kill you where you stand, present your filthy head to the captain.”

“Oh this is fantastic,” Jonathan suddenly blurted. “Then why don’t you? You’re shaking in your boots.”

“You shut your mouth!” The lieutenant didn’t move, his hand itching towards a pistol at his waist. “You’re all the same—you beasts.”

Jonathan’s gaze caught the speed of his opponent’s heartbeat, a pulse blazing at 157 BPM, and circled the man like a predator. “You’re afraid of me.” _ As you should be. _“Why is that?”

Lieutenant Cook breathed in through his nose. The confrontation brought back haunting memories of a time he would rather forget:

_ A flash of back alleys. The Pembroke. Red, red everywhere. Two eyes gazing blankly, blood as black as tar dribbling down _ his _ lips, but that wasn’t it. There was Andrew Wilson’s face to obscure the sight instead. Those brown eyes pleaded with him as the corpse in front of them began to shift. Run. _

Cook swallowed. “I’m not.” _ Ba-dump. Ba-dump. _

“You’re lying to me.”

“You… you don’t have a right to be here,” Cook said with a hiss. “Get out.”

Jonathan tightened his grip on the suitcase. “You’re not going to kill me?” he said with amusement. “You _want _to, I can see. You even said it yourself.”

  
Cook seethed. “That’s Andrew’s right.” 

Jonathan thought back to the uniformed men at the Pembroke, and to the pictures he’d passed by in the Priwen halls. _ Andrew? Captain Andrew Wilson? _

_ Click. Click. Screech. _“Oh? And why is that? This Andrew fellow is McCullum’s replacement, is he?” Jonathan asked as he grabbed the lieutenant’s shaking hand and slowly guided it away from the pistol. He leaned over Cook’s neck and breathed in. “Am I correct?”

His breath was cold and dead. Cook closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes you are.” 

“I see.” Jonathan released his grip. “I shall see you soon.”

Approaching boots—Cook heard them before he saw them. He drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes. Jonathan? Gone like dust in the wind.

“Sir!” said one Jacob Madison. Cook recognized him as a new recruit. “There’s no sign of it!”

Cook didn’t wait for more. “Men!” he shouted. “Tighten security until the captain returns!”

* * *

Jonathan fed again that night. Twice. The hunger gripped at him, left a grin on his face.

Screams.

To search for a cure to his thirst for human blood—many men would laugh in his face. They would tell him he was a fool to ever believe he could cure something as grand as unlife. Jonathan knew they were correct, but Elisabeth had made him promise. He reminded himself of this again and again, but still he knew the truth. Vampirism was forever. The promise was a lie. It was like trying to cure death, and there was no cure for that. _ Elisabeth, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. _

Jonathan decided to forget these thoughts by the next night. They had no place in his mind. He had promised her. _ I must go on. I must find this blood, this… blood of King Arthur. _

The thirst for _ it _ grew ever stronger. 

The streets were growing light again. Funny, wasn’t it? Tick, tick, tick. The clock ticks. The world goes on. _ His _world stops at 6 am. The sun. It was rising.

The murky water between cobblestones glinted light. Workers rushed out with soot-covered caps. Get to the factories! Get to the textiles! Get to work, work, work! Jonathan found himself surrounded in a world he could no longer be a part of. He had twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes.

The pocket watch snapped shut.

Tick, tick, tick.

He drew nearer to the docks, his goal already set in his mind. He’d visit the Stole next. They had to have it, didn’t they? For now, he needed… What did he need? 

And then he saw a dark-skinned, messily-dressed man—a broken one tending to a bottle—leaning against a brick wall to some dark-windowed cannery. Jonathan noted how strange it was to see the man outside of the Pembroke. “Mr. Hooks,” Jonathan greeted as he stopped in front of him.

At first Hooks didn’t respond, but then he looked up. Immediately, Jonathan regretted opening his mouth. Those _ eyes. _

“Doc?”

“I’m no doctor,” said Dr. Jonathan Reid.

Milton Hooks, because that was the poor sap’s name, gestured toward Jonathan with a half-empty bottle of Macallan whiskey. “...I dun knew why yur here.” He paused. “Wha’ do _ you _want?”

“I’m just passing through the area,” Jonathan said.

Hooks hung his head and tightened his grip on the whiskey. His eyes pleaded with the bottle. “I told those Priwen boys tha’ yur here. I saw you… exit tha’ railcar. You wanna know why I told ‘em, Mista Reid?” He rose his clouded gaze.

“Enlighten me.”

Hooks immediately pursed his lips. “You killed ‘er. _ You _ killed ‘er.”

“Who did I kill, Mr. Hooks?” Jonathan knew. His eyes betrayed him.

“Pippa. _ My _ Pippa. My girl! _ Mine, Mista Reid!” _

_  
_ “Sorry.” Perhaps he should be.

Hooks suddenly laughed, the sound guttural, inhuman. “He said sorry. Well I guess everythin’s pretty dandy just now, isn’t it? At least he a-po-lo-gized.”

The sun began to push the shadows further away. Jonathan glanced towards his destination and tried to ignore the moaning man behind him, but it seemed that Hooks wasn’t quite finished.

“Everyone knows wha’ you are,” the man whispered, his teeth chattering against the glass of the bottle. “You liiiied to us all. You made us trus’ you, but you turned out ta be a bloody leech.” 

The shadows were escaping through the cracks, down the alleys, away. Hurry. “Have a good day, Mr. Hooks. I really must be going.”

Hooks said nothing. His eyes said it all.

...

Later that morning ...

Three Priwen guards approached the sad sap with much haste. It was clear who, or what, they were searching for. “Have you had contact with him at all?”

“Who?”

The guard studied Hooks’s tired eyes. “Dr. Jonathan E. Reid. The leech.”

Hooks almost ignored him. “Sorry pal. I’ve seen nothin’.” And then he took another sip from his bottle.

* * *

The warehouse at the docks was just as Jonathan remembered it. Surrounded by supply crates, burlap tents, and the broken residents of the East End Docks, Sean Hampton’s shelter remained a sturdy pillar since its erection in 1915. As he approached—with speed, he might add, as the sun threatened to spill into the cluttered front yard—he noticed him.

Sean Hampton, or the Sad Saint as many had taken to calling the Irishman for the tears he often shed for the dead and suffering, stood in the entrance of the shelter. Jonathan joined him inside just as the sun nipped at his heels, but not before Hampton stood aside and waved him in.

The inside of the shelter was kept mostly sterile, much to Jonathan’s surprise. Several cots lined the walls and the middle of the floorplan, and between them sat tables covered lightly in donations and medical supplies. There were some crates as well, for storage of course, but most had been moved outside to make room for the sick and hungry. _ That must have been a while ago _ , thought Jonathan, _ as the shelter is quite empty. _

Despite his own character, Jonathan had always envied the Skal’s devotion to his flock. It was refreshing to see.

“I see you’re a busy man,” the Irishman said with some amusement. “To race the sun like that? You must be quite the masochist.”

“Quite,” Jonathan replied as he set down his suitcase. “I understand that you still run a busy shelter? I was hoping...”

At his words, Hampton glanced around the old warehouse. Most of the cots were empty. “There’s always room for one more lost soul, doctor. God is not selective among his children.” He paused and gestured around him. “Please sit and make yourself at home. I owe you that much.” 

“Yes,” Jonathan agreed, finding an empty cot far enough away from one of the clouded windows. “Your flock—”

“My flock,” Hampton said, “has been healthier these past two years. The epidemic is no more, but still…” The Sad Saint raised his head towards the ceiling, his eyes focused on something unseen. “God is not finished testing our faith yet, doctor.”

“Hampton?”

“The government. Those men up there have been neglecting those of us down here for far too long. I get women in here several times a week asking for provisions when I myself have not received enough! They’re afraid to face the wrath of their tired husbands, doctor.

“And those guardsmen sniff around here too often for my liking. They tolerate my presence here only because of what I do for this community, but I fear that someday they will take me away from them—my flock. And the war? The Great War is over, but the war on London’s streets is not. I…” Hampton sat down beside Jonathan. “I thank you for what you did for me. If you had left me the way I was… There’s still so much to do, Jonathan. There’s so much.”

“I know. Is there any way I can help?”

Hampton offered a smile, the expression strange on his scarred and pale face. “I know you to be a man of your word, Jonathan, but I’ve no need for assistance. At least not now. Please… stay as long as you’d like, but,” and here his expression changed, “I will not tolerate any bloodshed on these premises.”

“I understand.”

When the Sad Saint had gone, Jonathan clutched his head. He’d wasted another night. And what of tomorrow? Would he waste that one too? 

The blood of King Arthur… He had it once before, but this time McCullum was gone. And where to? Now _ that _was a question Jonathan was sure most couldn’t answer. With Andrew Wilson as the current captain, Jonathan wondered if all of Priwen was aware of McCullum and what he’d became. Would the man have stayed in London to continue the fight from the shadows, or had he escaped his former allies in pursuit of a new future?

Jonathan didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure he ever would.

_I should have left him that night. His expression had been so… _So what? _Delicious._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it getting a little hot in here? I think it's getting a little hot in here. Just kidding! Next chapter shall feature some cold-blooded murder and guts! Yes, all the guts! Prepare yourselves. :]


	3. Who? Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here to give a big thanks to Puppies and YouKnowLucas from DiscordApp who helped me edit my chapter two and three! Even if you never see this, thank you very much. I appreciate all your hard work.

_ At first Jonathan thought his throat had simply been calling for an extra glass of water. After he had downed a full glass, however, he found himself reaching for another, and then another… Eventually, he made quite an embarrassing scene in the washroom, and his throat was still as dry as sand in the desert. _

Jonathan knew then what it had been, and he knew what it was now. He wasn’t at all sure if he was proud of what he had become. _ I certainly shouldn’t be, _he thought. Certainly his moral compass had grown awry since four years ago, and yet…

He didn’t ignore it now, the thirst, and the only shame he felt when acting upon these bestial impulses was when he was reminded of his dearly departed Elisabeth. She had always been so controlled, so careful. She had never wanted to kill. She had even asked him to stop, the poor woman! Perhaps he _ should _ feel some sense of shame. 

There was blood in his mouth.

It tasted so sweet—not unlike chocolate-covered strawberries.

There was another scent accompanying it. Again Jonathan looked at his hands, saw them stained with death, and knew what he had done. In the moment he had relished it. Now?

Now he wasn’t so sure.

_ Elisabeth. Oh, my Elisabeth… Why have you forsaken me to this god-awful place? To become this heartless creature? _

He was Nosferatu.

He suddenly remembered where he was. The darkened alley between two tenements was long and skinny, yet he had somehow managed to fit both himself and a corpse within the confines of the walls. As usual, the fog of London’s night drifted from the mouths at either end of the alleyway. It was… ominous. Did it bother him? No.

Jonathan brought his fingers up to the crest of his lips and inhaled deeply. The scent—it sent shivers down his spine. It made him want to do naughty, naughty things. It made him want to be _ bad. _

_ But you’re already bad, aren’t you, Jonathan? _

He was twisted.

Crooked.

Perverted.

The lifeblood dribbled from his fingertips, from his lips, and from the rather ghastly wound left on the poor woman’s neck. Flaps of skin and ruptured carotid arteries dangled uselessly to the side, but he paid them no mind. He was only a doctor of the living, after all. 

Jonathan inhaled again and pressed his fingers to his cheeks. He painted his pale flesh with the brightness of the blood, and he relished it. He knew his soul was already damned to Hell. Was that so bad?

_ Jonathan. Jonathan, please. You’re not listening to me, love. _

_ Let go of this… this madness that’s spreading through you. _

_ It’s an addiction, isn’t it? I know… I already told you that I suffered from the same thing. That was… Well, it was a long time ago. Let me help you. Please. _

_ Look at me. _

_ Jonathan! _

_ I asked you to look at me. _

_ Come now, don’t lie to me. I’m no fool. I’ve seen the blood on your sleeves, on your— _

_ Let me clean that for you. _

_ ...There. _

_ Now— _

_ Jonathan, you’re ignoring me. _

_ Yes, you are! _

_What happened to the man I met on the docks? The man who was so desperately searching for answers, who had felt the need for justice?__  
_ _What happened to you?_

_ Was it Mary? Your sister? _

_ Jonathan, I know it’s hard for you. It wasn’t your fault—I already told you that! _

_ … _

_ Jonathan? _

_ Jonathan! _

“I love you,” he breathed, unsure as to which: the blood or Elisabeth. He pulled his fingertips away from his cheeks and stared at them, and he was sure he felt his heart flutter. 

_ ‘Find a cure,’ she had said. _ ‘_If not for me, then for you.’ _

_ He had returned a strange look. Perhaps he was too caught up in the moment to truly take her words to heart. It hadn’t mattered. She had stepped into the flames, and no amount of daydreaming would bring her back. The fire had been her cure, but she had hoped his panacea would be different. It wouldn’t be, he knew. Jonathan remembered that his heart had charred as black as coal, resembling the—her—burning castle he’d left behind. He had shed not a tear nor a call into the night, and he had not rushed back inside to find what he was sure would be her charred remains. _

_ He had done nothing. _

_ He had let her burn. _

_ I did, _Jonathan thought as he slowly rose to his feet. 

The thirst waned and seeped into the background. It remained just on the edge of his consciousness. He could feel it now, stalking him like a cat to a mouse. For now it was sated, but for how long?

A shadow flickered in his peripherals. Jonathan’s head snapped to it. Nothing. 

He left the alley behind, finding the travel much more enjoyable without the load of his suitcase, or the weight of the thirst. 

_ He’d entrusted it—the luggage—to Sean Hampton, and the poor saint had sworn to Jonathan that nothing would befall it. ‘I trust all will be well,’ Jonathan had said. Hampton had always been a trustworthy fellow, he knew. _

_ The night was young again. Jonathan made sure of that when had woken in the late evening in one of the unused cots of Hampton’s shelter. He was staying on the second floor, of course, in a room clearly marked for storage. Sean Hampton, the proprietor of the shelter, knew the troubles that were synonymous with Jonathan, and yet he still opened his arms wide like the bloody idiot that he was. ‘God loves all His children,’ the Irishman had said wistfully. ‘Therefore as a shepherd I shall guide my sheep—my flock.’ Jonathan had said something sharp, something he regretted, but Hampton did not let the smile fall from his face. ‘He loves you, doctor, but He does not love what you do.’ _

_ For the love of God! _ Jonathan thought as he brushed his bloodied hands on his coat. Ironic, some small part of his mind prodded. He ignored it. _ Leave my thoughts alone, Mr. Hampton! God does not love vampires! _But Hampton’s words resonated in his ears louder than he could drown them out.

Death. The sweet scent washed over him.

Jonathan laughed. 

Gorged on blood and dark thoughts, he struggled to remember his next destination. The alley fell from view as the landscape dragged on through quiet streets, filthy tenements, and darkened businesses. The chilling fog was ever-present. The destination…? Ah, right. The Stole. The Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole.

Another shadow slunk away. The breeze smelled lightly of cigarette smoke.

Jonathan stopped in the middle of the road. His feet refused to move.

_ The Brotherhood? Of St. Paul’s Stole? _

He felt like he was standing in drying concrete.

_ The Brotherhood was a gathering of theists. They gathered in a church. _

_ A church. A place of worship. _

_ God, I’m an idiot. _

He was fairly certain that he said that last bit aloud. 

He’d better hope King Arthur’s blood wasn’t _ there. _ He’d be damned in more ways than one if it were. “Damn it all. What a waste.” Well, not entirely… Jonathan grew uncomfortably aware of the crusting blood on his sunken cheeks and in the bristles of his beard. _ Do not look back. _

He didn’t have to. Instead, yet another shadow drifted away, but this time it was under the light of a street lamp.

Could it be? Had his prayers been answered? 

_ God does not answer the prayers of a vampire! _

“Must you speak all your damned thoughts aloud?” demanded the shadow. Jonathan did not jump, he was fairly certain. Vampires do not get startled!

And shadows do not speak with an Irish accent.

Still, he did not move. Jonathan was still glued to that spot, his grey eyes already trained on the figure standing under the light. “Good God. It _ is _you.”

And it was. Geoffrey McCullum, former Priwen captain, Irishman, and a damned good hunter, stood slumped against the streetlight. He wore what Jonathan remembered him always wearing. That is, the tan overcoat was worn, the vest recycled, the black patent leather shoes as dull as dirt. A lit cigarette sat squarely between two raised fingers, but McCullum did not bring it to his lips. Instead, his glowing eyes focused on Jonathan’s statuesque form. What was that in his expression? Anger or betrayal? Exhaustion or relief? Jonathan would have to get closer.

He did not. 

His feet were roots.

Was he relieved?

“McCullum,” Jonathan said warily. “How are you?”

McCullum finally took a drag from the lit bud. He did not answer as his head tilted up and a cloud of grey rocketed out from between two pale lips. The cigarette was flicked to the ground. Those _eyes. _“Four years, Reid, and what’s the first thing to come out of your mouth? _How are you? _Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Jonathan watched the other man pluck another cigarette from a pack he retrieved from his pocket. He watched him light it, watched him take three more drags.

Silence.

Jonathan did not move. He willed himself not to.

“You knew it, didn’t you?” the former Priwen captain asked. More smoke. McCullum’s lips contorted into a cruel smile. “Don’t be modest, _ leech. _You knew I’d find you. You’re leaving a bloody trail wherever you go—makes you easy prey.”

This time Jonathan could not help himself. “I came for you,” he said. He found himself to be satisfied as McCullum’s face grew dark. “I require something of yours.” 

Ashes flicked to the ground. “You won’t get it.”

“I know.” 

The two of them stood there, facing off in a test of will. Jonathan watched as McCullum’s fists clenched and unclenched, the cigarette and its dying ashes forgotten. Neither of them moved, nor even blinked. Jonathan caught his gaze wandering to the bud in McCullum’s grasp. It fell. He watched it. McCullum darted.

Then there were claws.

And blood.

And shouts.

And swipes, and punches, and bites.

He was pinned under those claws—that McCullum. Jonathan grinned down at him, his eyes now shining in a red haze of bloodlust. His claws scratched the cobblestone—whose? Both, perhaps. McCullum snarled up at Jonathan, at his better. His eyes said something entirely different. Why? Why, why, why, why? 

“You did this to me—made me this!” McCullum snarled. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, you leech, you bastard!”

Jonathan drew nearer, his cold gaze focused solely on the other man’s eyes. _ “I enjoyed watching him squirm—your lieutenant! He cried for you, you know. He almost revealed himself!” _

“Get out of my head!”

_ “I watched him tell the rest of the guard that I had killed you. His name is Wilson, isn’t it? It’s Captain Andrew Wilson now. Do you _ like _ that?” _ Jonathan’s cold breath brushed against McCullum’s neck. He did not need to breathe; It was for power, dominance. McCullum growled. _ “Wilson knew the truth. His little lackey knew the truth. He let you go, let you rush away in a fit of bloodlust. I watched it happen, McCullum, I watched you kill those people. _ He _ watched you kill those people. How long has it been since you last fed? How long, Geoffrey?!” _

“I said get out, you fucking bastard!” 

_ SCHLICK! _

_ Plip. _

_ Plip. _

Jonathan’s lips began to shake. His hand wandered to his chest, grabbed it, attempted to pull it out. He moaned. McCullum pushed him off. “McCullum.” It was little more than a breath. 

_ Plip, plip, plip. _

McCullum stood, his eyes wild and his teeth clenched. “Next time won’t be like this, Reid,” he said. “Next time I’ll put your fucking head on a pike.”

_ “Why?” _ called Jonathan. _ “Why not kill me now? Why not be done with it?” _

He got no response.

“The blood,” Jonathan moaned. “I need… King Arthur’s—” But the other man had already stepped into the shadows, and Jonathan was left with his mistake, his misery, a silver-coated stake shoved just half of an inch from his heart. His flesh hissed and protested. 

His eyes closed.

When they reopened, the sky was lighter.

But it was still dark _ enough, _he knew, and he felt his numbing chest as his throat burned like the Mojave Desert.

Mind absent.

Surroundings grey.

A spot of red?

_ Blood? _

A horseless carriage was bumbling down the road. He saw it through the grey haze that blurred his vision. It was coming, lights shining. It pulsed with life; Two healthy heartbeats sat side-by-side, calling to him, though the mechanical beast smelled of old engine oil and copper brake pads and— 

“Renfield, why are we out here so early?”

_ Ktch. Ktch. Ktch. _

“Renny?”

“I’m trying to concentrate!”

Jonathan groaned and tried to cover his aching ears, but his arms didn’t do much more than twitch. _ Would you cease that horrible creaking? Move! _His life essence was draining from him, trickling away into the cracks in the cobblestones. 

_ It’s not yours, _he reminded himself.

His mind was slowly coming back to him, but not enough for— 

_ It _ did not stop. The vehicle did not stop.

_ Eeeeeeeee! _

_ Crunch! _

_ Kutch...ooga. Whirr… _

_ Click. _

“Oh my God,” came a male voice. 

“What—? What is it?”

“Lucy! Good God, no! Stay in the car.”

“Renf—”

“I said stay in the car!”

Boots approached him. Two sturdy, expensive boots, Jonathan knew. They smelled new, smelled like leather and Saphir polish. 

“Sir?” called the man in the expensive boots. 

Jonathan did not stir. He was as still as death.

“Oh my God,” the man repeated. “He’s dead. I bloody killed the man.” Those boots crouched beside Jonathan, creaked under the weight of a well-fed body. A gloved finger hesitantly nudged Jonathan’s shoulder. 

“Renfield?” the woman called just as Jonathan’s eyes flew open. The man’s gaze immediately flew to the car. “What is it, dear?”

“Damn it, woman! I said stay in the—”

_ Quishhh! Plat! _

Silence.

“Renfield…?”

Jonathan had already slunk into the shadows when she screamed.

* * *

“Doctor?” It was Sean Hampton, his reddish eyebrows pushed together as he held open the door. “You don’t look so well…” 

“No,” Jonathan replied. He did not move, but his eyes greedily swallowed in the darkness of the shelter’s interior. “I’m not.”

Hampton looked at Jonathan—_ really _looked at him. His expensive vest and coat, torn and blood-soaked as they were, were the least of the man’s problems. “My observations from yesterday stand true, it seems. Do you enjoy the sun that much?” The Sad Saint could hear even from the doorframe the dreadful sounds of popping and singeing. Still Jonathan did not move, his eyes dark and clouded. “Ah, yes, forgive me… Please come inside, Mr. Reid.”

Immediately, Jonathan rushed through Hampton and into the cool interior. He pressed a hand to his cheek, to his neck, to his chest, and then he slumped onto a cot by the door, startling a young woman lying down just feet away. Hampton narrowed his gaze as he shut the door with a _ click! _

“You belong upstairs, Jonathan.”

“You let me burn.” It was a warning. “I will sit where I please.”

“Very well.” 

As Hampton left him to speak in hushed whispers with the woman, Jonathan pressed a delicate hand to his chest. The burns were already healing, but his chest would not. _ Damn you, McCullum, _ was a thought that passed through his head several times. Jonathan had been arrogant, had not been wary enough. As a human, McCullum had already been a problem. Now he was… not that—not human. Jonathan closed his eyes. _ He thought it was me. It was not. _

_ He doesn’t yet know the truth of his condition. _ It was a thought that made Jonathan’s muscles tense. _ Damn it all. I had thought that maybe— _

“Mr. Reid.”

Said man looked up.

Hampton was looking at him strangely, a glass of something suspicious grasped tightly in his hand. Jonathan’s throat suddenly went dry. “Let’s speak. Upstairs, please,” Hampton said.

Jonathan swallowed. “Where did you get that?” 

“Upstairs, Mr. Reid. We may discuss all where prying eyes cannot reach us.” 

“Very well.”

The woman watched the two men leave the room and ascend the stairs to the next. In her shaking hands she clutched a delicate rosary. Her knuckles were white.

The room upstairs was much like the lower, though it was empty when the two men arrived. At the far end, and through a small doorway, sat a squat spruce table with three mismatched chairs. Hampton gestured for Jonathan to sit as he himself took the chair nearest the wall. Wooden legs screeched. In front of Hampton sat an empty, bloodied bowl, and Jonathan found himself sniffing the air.

“Dinner, Mr. Hampton?”

“Breakfast, actually.” 

Silence.

Hampton passed the suspicious cup to Jonathan. The liquid inside swished around at the action. “What happened tonight, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I do mind, actually,” Jonathan replied. Hampton watched Jonathan down the glass. “Do you have more?”

“No.” More silence. Hampton cleared his throat. “God sees all, Jonathan. I am just one of His children, and so are you.” He looked at the other man knowingly. “He—” Hampton slammed his mouth shut as the glass shattered in Jonathan’s hand. “Mr. Reid?”

“Hampton.” Jonathan’s voice shook. “I’d like to rest.”

“Mr. Reid, _ please. _You must listen to me.”

_ Jonathan, please. You’re not listening to me, love. _

The chair screeched as Jonathan stood, his palms pressed firmly to the table. “Hampton!”

“Reid!” Hampton stood as well, his bloodshot eyes focused solely on the other man. “Priwen has had scouts stationed around my shelter, around my flock!” he said, his voice ragged and hoarse. “They know you’re here, I’m sure of it, though I know they haven’t _ seen _ you enter, but I’m afraid. I’m so very afraid, doctor. I don’t want to be taken away from them—my flock. They _ need _me.” Hampton pressed his fingers into his chest, his eyes wide. “Surely you must understand that! But I hear reports of murders so blatant on the streets, and you returning here with blood splashed on your face like a bloody painting makes me feel—!” He did not finish. Instead, he fell back into the chair and cradled his head. 

Jonathan’s fingers gripped the top of his chair. 

Hampton sighed after a very long moment of prolonged quiet. “All’s forgiven.” It was not.

“Shall I clean up?”

“Please.” A pause. “I’ve placed your luggage in the closet as requested, doctor.” 

Jonathan moved through the open doorway, but before he reached the washroom across the room, he raised his head and called out. “The one upstairs?”

“The very one.”

“Thank you. And Hampton?”

“Yes?”

“Why did I need an invitation in?” _ Tell me, Mr. Hampton. _

Sean Hampton looked up at the sudden change in tone, startling slightly at the close proximity of Jonathan’s face to his own. When…? “Doctor—”

“Hampton.”

“I’m not really sure,” Hampton said quietly.

The air in the room grew deathly still as Jonathan swiped a finger through the bowl, brought it to his lips, and licked it. Hampton swallowed. “You’re a liar.”

“Mr. Reid,” the Irishman began. “You understand as well as I that Priwen has been—”

“I understand that very well!” Jonathan backed away and straightened. “But I am staying here and I am your guest. That’s correct, right? Hampton?”

“...Yes, Mr. Reid. It is.”


	4. Admittance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments, and enjoy!
> 
> Edited: Nov. 14, 2019  
Edit notes: I fixed a couple grammar and spelling errors, and I also fixed a part of the text where I referred to a person incorrectly. All's fixed! If there's anymore errors, please send me a DM. I'll get on it right away. o7

He smelled it first, heard it second, saw it last.

There was something off about the shelter’s air, something… foreboding, dark. What could it be? _ Who? _

He slowly opened the door from his office, his senses acutely aware of _ Satan’s evil. _

Sean Hampton, the Sad Saint, was the proprietor of a shelter in London’s East End Docks. He was an Irishman, had an intense love for God, and an equally strong love for His people. Sean was a Skal, a lesser vampire, but he was known to be kind and trustworthy. These were the labels given to him by those that knew him, but there was one that most certainly was never mentioned aloud:

Sean Hampton was a fool.

_ Dear God _ , thought he. _ What have I done? _

It was a difficult sight—at least for him. Sean fell to his knees as his eyes grew heavy and his sight grew dim. Tears of red, as grotesque as they were, trudged down his cheeks as Dr. Jonathan E. Reid, a man Sean had once trusted with his life, clamped his jaws upon the neck of the woman Sean had spoken to just last night. Her eyes met his as the rosary shook in her weakening grasp. His heart broke.

Lucy Collins—one of God’s children, his flock.

Jonathan Reid—a friend, a murderer.

_ Help me, _Lucy’s eyes pleaded.

Sean couldn’t.

* * *

Sean Hampton practically never slept. 

It was common for members of the undead species to have gaunt faces, sunken eyes, and lanky builds. Sean was no different. Of course, and despite this, he often ate like he should. Thanks to the Wet Boot Boys, it was quite easy for a man such as himself to stumble upon cadavers lying in the darkest alleys of the East End Docks. When arriving upon his next meal, he often dropped to his knees and said a prayer of thanks. God, it seemed, had not forgotten him in this time of need. _ Thank you, my Father, _ he would always pray. _ Thank you. _

On Sunday nights, he attended a mass of one. He often had communion with the priest at 9:30, and hours later he’d find his stomach pumping and his skin turning a chalky white. Still, Sean went to church. He was a good servant, a faithful servant; God was his Father, and Sean was His child. Perhaps the unfortunate side effects of his condition were only a test? Perhaps he’d passed? Sean liked to think that he did. 

The rest of the week was for Sean to run his shelter. He liked serving the other children of God, liked to give them a place to stay with a warm, comfortable stomach. Many often gave him embraces. Many knew what he was.

They did not care.

In the end, why should they?

The epidemic had ended on a sour note, in Sean’s opinion, though he often didn’t like to think much on the subject. Men and women of his kind were often hunted in the streets, corpses still littered the alleyways of the dirtier parts of the city, and citizens still stayed holed up in their flats. As each year went by, the world revolved in much the same way: Sean ran his shelter, Priwen thugs patrolled the streets, people died, people died, people died.

Then Dr. Jonathan E. Reid, the man who saved Sean from insanity, arrived on his doorstep. It had been nearly four years, but Sean Hampton still remembered the day the man had pity on the Sad Saint’s soul. _ Thank you, my Brother, _ Sean had said on that fateful day. _ Thank you. _ But Dr. Reid was not the man Sean remembered from four years ago. When the good doctor arrived on his doorstep, his expression had been less than savory, and his mouth had reeked of blood, blood, blood.

The first day, Sean Hampton had chosen to forgive and forget. Dr. Reid was a strange fellow, and he was indeed a member of the undead. _ Of course his breath would smell like that, _ Sean had thought. _ Of course. How silly of me. _

The second day, Sean smelled the same darkness on the good doctor’s person. Reid’s expression had been dark that day, too, and he’d arrived so late in the morning that the sun had practically baked his poor blood-stained face. His temper had been hot and his soul showed itself to be tarnished. _ Could a man such as he be forgiven by the good grace of God? _Sean had wondered. Of course, he knew the answer; The Father forgave all, loved all, saved all. Still, Sean Hampton found himself worried. What had happened to the kind-hearted Dr. Jonathan E. Reid? 

Now it was the third day, and Sean knew in his heart that the good doctor was no longer that—no longer good. Could he even be called a doctor after breaking a sworn oath to do no harm? Was the man’s heart blackened by the diabolic touch of the Evil One, the all-knowing and ever-taunting Satan?

Yes.

* * *

_ Help me. _

Sean opened his mouth, his hands shaking and his eyes crying tears of blood. Mr. Reid? The good doctor? Nonsense. Why had he let this man into his shelter, his home, his shield for all those weary and tired?

Why had God not told him to be wary? Had He wanted this? Had Hampton been forsaken by his Father? No, it was not to be. No, it couldn’t. No. 

No, no, no, no, no.

No!

NO!

Lucy Collins, a fantastic storyteller and kind-hearted individual, convulsed in Mr. Reid’s grasp, but the evil man did not release her. “Please,” she breathed. She tried to speak again, tried to reach out, tried to tell Sean that— 

He watched the light fade from her eyes. He watched the woman die, watched her wither and slump over in Reid’s grasp. Reid tore himself from her bloodied, ragged neck and let her fall. He let her fall and Sean suddenly felt very, very small. And ill. Yes, Sean felt ill too.

_ Thump. _

Why, Mr. Reid?

What have you done, Mr. Reid?

How could you do this, Mr. Reid?

Sean did not rise from the floor. No, he pressed his hands to his lips and continued to weep, for he was the Sad Saint. He was not poor Lucy Collins’s savior. He was only a man—a very small man.

A very small man indeed.

When the red haze of ecstasy died from Reid’s eyes, the evil man flicked his gaze to the Irishman on the floor. Confusion? Was that what Reid felt? _ How could a man such as this look at me in this way? _ Sean thought. _ Speak. Speak! _

He could not. Sean’s mouth opened again, partly, but still he found no words. Did Reid not understand the gravity of what he’d just done? Did Reid not— 

“Father, who art in Heaven,” Sean finally mumbled, his thumbs brushing the cool concrete of the floor. “Hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on Earth as it is…” Sean pressed his head to the coldness. It comforted him, made his heavy heart just a tiny bit lighter.

_ Creeaaak. _“Hampton?”

“...as it is in Heaven,” Sean finished, his words no more than a whisper. When he felt a friendly hand upon his shoulder, he cried. No, the strength of his crying only intensified. Blood splattered on the floor, but he would not look up. 

_ Lucy Collins was but one of the many. She was a friend; She was a good woman; She was one of God’s willing, faithful servants. _

“What have you done, Mr. Reid?” His voice was hoarse. Why was his voice hoarse?  
_Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name— _

_ How could you? How could you? I trusted you. He trusted you. _

_ Every man was a sinner, but Reid had to be the greatest of them all. _

_ Yes, Reid truly was a diabolical sinner. _

“Hampton,” Reid said, his hand tightening its grip on Sean’s shoulder. “Hampton!”

Sean slowly lifted his head, his cheeks streaked with lines of red. “Why?” It was all he could say. His lips were shaking, and he could not trust himself to say more. There was nothing else to say. He did not… He did not wish to speak to this man. 

Reid’s grip slackened, but still that hand remained. “She saw me,” Reid said lamely. “She knew what I was. I could not let her warn the hunters; She was preparing to leave, and I could not let her.” 

“But… why?”

Reid let go and stood with a grunt. “Mr. Hampton, you’re being absolutely redicul—”

Sean closed his eyes. “Get out.”

_ “What?” _

“I said leave this place, Mr. Reid!” _ And, and… Oh dear Father, what am I to do? What am I doing? I’m so very sorry. I cannot love this man, Father. I have betrayed You by not loving this man. _“Please, just… leave. Don’t return,” Sean said, his voice small. “Please don’t ever return.”

Reid pursed his lips. “I’ll have you know that you’re already walking a fine line with Priwen, Mr. Hampton.” He paused. “Truly, you must be exhausted.”

“No,” Sean said. It was a lie—yet another betrayal to his all-knowing Father. “No, you must leave now. You’ve… You’ve betrayed my trust, Mr. Reid.”

“I have,” Reid said. “Allow me to collect my personal effects.” 

“No. Just… Just leave.” 

Sean only opened his drying eyes when he heard the door open. It was growing dark, and the lengthening shadows allowed for that horrible, evil man—that man he once called a friend—to exit the shelter. When Sean heard the _ click _ of the door _ , _he looked up. 

Lucy Collins’s dead eyes were parallel to the floor.

Again, his eyes welled up with red tears for all the lost souls. He cried for Ms. Lucy Collins, and he cried for Dr. Jonathan Reid.

* * *

_ This is not amusing, Mr. Hampton, _ thought Jonathan as he slunk closer to the stinking buildings of the East End Docks. _ This is not amusing in the slightest. _

The sun had not yet fallen low enough to allow for safe travel, but Hampton’s tearful gaze, and subtraction of his invitation, had forced Jonathan to abscond. Sean Hampton’s face had appeared… Jonathan couldn’t describe it. Where had he seen that gaze before? Where had he been assaulted with such an image?

_ I have this nasty hole in my chest, Johnny. It needs to breathe. _

Mary.

Oh yes, Mary, his sister. Of course. 

...Of course, how could he forget?

The sky grew darker as the fog closed in, and soon Jonathan found himself no longer slinking through the shadows. He found that the pain of the sun’s presence slowly faded, but that nagging uncertainty remained, and the slow-healing wound from the silver stake throbbed through his blood-encrusted clothing. _ I need… What do I need? _

_ Clothes. I need new clothes. _

Jonathan did not acknowledge the more important things that he required. He wasn’t yet in the mood for it. No, not yet.

It was the fourth day of his arrival to London, and Jonathan already wanted to leave. 

_ The cure, Jonathan. Find it. Find it now. _

_ King Arthur’s blood. _

_ McCullum. _

_ Priwen, vampires, bloodshed, death, destruction, despair, pain, agony, eternal life. _

_ Eternal life or eternal suffering? _

_ What is life but death pending? _

_ Blood? _

_ Blood. _

It was then that Jonathan stopped beside an abandoned market stand near the corner of two quiet streets. He watched as young men rushed out of nearby buildings with long metal pokers and five-foot foldable ladders. Small flames appeared one by one through the mist as if they were willow-the-wisps guiding unfortunate souls to their final destinations. Ah, the streetlamps. He’d forgotten that the cheaper parts of the city had yet to update from less primitive technology.

Jonathan wiped the drying blood from his lips and continued on, his coat swaying behind him as he marched. Where was the next step? 

Hm.

Should he? No.

Well… 

What other choice did he have?

So he’d visit the gentlemen of the Ascalon Club, then. Why not? Certainly they’d be able to _ assist _ him in his endeavors to properly locate the ever-elusive Geoffrey McCullum, and if not, perhaps they had an alternative solution to his predicament; however, Jonathan was absolutely certain that if such a thing was so readily available, the members of that senior society would have no desire to notify _ him _of all people. No, it would not be that easy, he was sure. After all, it’s not as though Jonathan had left a very good impression on the old ogres. In fact, he remembered that they explicitly described to him the manner in which he’d be torn apart, limb from limb, should he ever choose to return. 

Jonathan did not _ choose _ to return. 

No one else stood out to him in the streets. The cobblestones were quiet, the air still and the fog sluggish. Those flames flickering in the newly-lit lamps now stood alone, their keepers already having fled back to their warm and safe homes. It was a lonely setting; It was a setting fit for an immortal.

And so he stalked the streets of London, slowly making his way across bridges, down roads, through alleyways. The West End of London—the location in which the Ascalon Club resided—was much further than he remembered. Jonathan found his mind wandering to less… savory topics. It made him want to arrive all the quicker.

It was forty-three minutes past when Jonathan reached the edge of the West End. No one was out tonight, it appeared, and discarded newspapers and rubbish littered the side of the road like it was the night after a New Year’s Eve party. What had happened here? Why was it so… quiet? Certainly Ms. Charlotte Ashbury, at least, would be shouting her typical rhetoric, and Mr. Ichabod Throgmorton would be passing out his usual pamphlets, or maybe Clarence— 

Oh.

_ I’ve certainly made a mess of the place, haven’t I? _

Something not quite _ his _whispered in his mind.

_ “You aren’t the man I met on the docks,” Elisabeth said quietly. _

_ I’ve become something else entirely. You warned me, didn’t you? I didn’t listen. _

_ If it means anything, my Lady, I’d be willing to listen now. _

_ “It’s too late, Jonathan. It’s already too late.” _

Jonathan bowed his head and continued on towards the large mansion near the middle of the street. It was very much like how he remembered it, though— 

What was that?

_ Ba... _

Jonathan’s leather shoes scraped the curb as he made his way through the iron gate. The gate, which sat in front of the trimmed and proper courtyard, groaned at his touch and swayed to an invisible wind. The Ascalon Club’s front loomed before him, but it was unnaturally quiet, unnaturally alone. 

There it was again!

_ Ba...dum... _

It was the beating of a heart so slow that he was almost sure his ears had deceived him. It was only when the beating _ disappeared _ that he knew what it was. _ Ever the sly bastard, isn’t he? _

He heard it again in the club’s ruined interior. As he pushed open the spruce door, which he noted had been left slightly ajar with the lock broken, he became aware of the stench of dried blood. The once pristine interior was caked in it, actually, though Jonathan could not see a single corpse, and a large glass chandelier lay shattered upon the ruined carpet. Paintings, vases and little porcelain ornaments lay broken or heaped in shards spattered with blood.

The unnatural beating disappeared yet again, though it was quickly replaced by two faster ones at the door. Jonathan whipped around as a bullet displaced air not an inch from his face!

Who? What?! 

Jonathan caught sight of two uniformed figures in the doorway. 

Captain Andrew Wilson and... “Lieutenant James Cook,” Jonathan said slyly, schooling his expression back into stone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, and in such pleasant company no less.” 

Cook narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but Jonathan interjected.

“Sirs, might I ask what has brought you here to this lovely corner of London?”

Wilson, the taller of the two, shrugged his shoulders as he raised his right arm. A strange little crossbow-like contraption was strapped tightly to it; Jonathan recognized the weapon. 

“We got a tip, and we followed it. Seems it was right,” Captain Wilson said.

“McCullum?” Jonathan questioned with a slight tilt of his lips. 

“None of your business.”

“And your men? Why are there only two of you? Surely you don’t believe that—”

Lieutenant Cook took a step forward, a pistol brandished in his right hand. He shook it. “Shut up! Shut up! You know why we’re here. Willy—” 

“James!” 

Cook shut his mouth and glared at Jonathan, at _ the leech. _

Captain Wilson kept his crossbow focused on Jonathan’s head, though the doctor was not perturbed. “You killed McCullum,” the captain said slowly, his eyes clouded.

Jonathan thought he saw…? Really? Interesting. “Actually, McCullum is quite—”

“Bein’ a bloody leech doesn’t count!” Wilson said with a bellow, his aim wavering. “Stop actin’ like you don’t know what this is about! You ended everything! When I saw… When I saw him come to, I knew what he was. James and I had run into the room.” He gestured towards Cook as if to prove some point. “You. It was you, _ Reid _. I saw ya stand up, and… Geoffrey was…”

“A leech,” James supplied.

“Yeah, a bloody fuckin’ leech.”

Jonathan took a step forward, and then another. He heard the click of the pistol’s hammer readying for a shot, but he made no move to disarm either man. “You’re mistaken. _ I did not turn McCullum _.” 

Cook sputtered. “He’s a fucking liar! A right bastard!”

“Then why don’t you shoot me, Lieutenant Cook?” Jonathan opened his arms wide. “Go ahead.”

The room filled with silence.

“...I’ve got questions,” Captain Wilson said. “And time. So tell me.” His voice grew quiet, low. “Why _ him _? Why McCullum?”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Don’t play innocent! Why? Why did he have to die?” Wilson’s crossbow shook.

Jonathan finally shook his head and bared his fangs aggressively. “And I told you. _ I did not turn McCullum!” _

“I don’t believe you!”

“And why is that my problem?!”

“It’s your problem because you’re goin’ ta get shot, arsehole!”

Jonathan turned away from the two men and stepped closer to the destroyed chandelier, ever aware of the weapons trained on his backside. “This is ridiculous. The _ leader _of Priwen is… What is it you’re doing, Captain Wilson?” He turned back around and aggressively thrust his finger out. “Why are you here?”

“What the fuck d'ya mean?” 

The doctor pressed his lips into a white line. “The question remains the same. You are Priwen. You do not speak to so-called _ leeches! _Surely there is some other reason that prevents you from firing that weapon, Captain! And your partner!” Jonathan whipped his gaze to Lieutenant James Cook. “Why is he here? What part does he have to play in this theatrical skit?” He abruptly stopped. “Oh. I see.”

Wilson sneered, yet he refused to look at either Jonathan or Lieutenant Cook. “Do you?”

“I do,” Jonathan replied, remembering the scene Cook had explained to him at the Priwen base. Certainly, Wilson’s eagerness to confront Jonathan, and his current expression, gave much of it away. Of course, there was also the little detail of Wilson allowing McCullum to both escape _ and _kill on the night of his rebirth. “You have feelings for McCullum, don’t you?”

The room went unnaturally silent.

“Willy?” Cook questioned as he slowly lowered the pistol. “...What’s he mean?”

Captain Andrew Wilson grunted and fumbled around in his pockets—cigarettes, Jonathan guessed. The captain pulled one out and lit it, his eyes warily focusing on Jonathan’s still form. “Loved, _ leech, _loved. Can’t love a corpse.” He glanced to Cook. “Oh c’mon, James. We both know your eagerness ain’t for loyalty.”

Again, the room was silent. 

“N-no,” Cook spluttered. 

“So there it is then,” Jonathan finally said. 

_ Kshhh...thunk! Crash! _

Glass shards sprayed up into the air, but Jonathan did not move. “You must adjust your aim, Captain.”

“I’m tired of talkin’,” Wilson grunted, shoving through his cemented comrade as he reloaded his crossbow. 

“As am I.” _ Fwip! _

Jonathan simply disappeared.

_ Ktchnk. _

_ Uuuurrr… _

_ Klunk! _

_ Crsh! _

Silence. 

Wilson lifted his crossbow and took a step back, his eyes surveying the interior of the entrance room. “James! Stop gawkin’ and start lookin’!”

“Willy,” Cook said with a grunt. His eyes were clouded over, but he refused to speak his mind. “He’s gone.”

“...Shit.” 

Jonathan was not gone; So far, in fact, he had only managed to silently creep through the door. _ This is ridiculous, _he thought. He’d only slunk three steps when— 

Cigarette smoke carried through the fog like a heavy blanket as footsteps echoed down the sidewalk.

“Well fuck me. It’s the _ good _doctor Reid.” 


	5. Hunting the Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I wasn't able to finish chapter 6 before the U.S.A. has its Thanksgiving break, and I'm going to be busy during it, so I won't be able to post the chapter for about another week. Sorry :[
> 
> Wow, this is a LONG chapter. It's about 2000 words longer than my usual 3000 word minimum. I wasn't able to find a good spot to break the scenes up, so here it is. Enjoy, and please comment below! I love to hear from you guys and it definitely encourages me to keep at it. I'm glad so many of you enjoy it! I hope that I continue to meet your expectations, and, well... Thank you for reading.
> 
> Edited: Nov. 26, 2019  
Edit Notes: Fixed some grammar, word choice, and the structure of the block quote! Also, I added an edit to the notes section.

Cigarette smoke danced with the chilly London fog.

_ Click. Scrr…  _

“Well fuck me,” grunted a familiar voice. “It’s the  _ good  _ doctor Reid.”

_ Click. Click. Scrrr… Click. _

Jonathan met the other’s eyes.

_ Click. _

The boots halted before him.

The heartbeats behind Jonathan began to quicken, and in a moment the doctor had  _ slammed _ the door shut and grabbed McCullum by his neck. The world slowed for a half-second as smoke swam through the air like a strange, dream-like fog as the two men suddenly appeared several meters away from the Ascalon Club’s entrance. 

_ Fwip! _

It was far enough—for now.

Jonathan bared his fangs and slammed McCullum into the side of a building. “What game are you play—”  _ Urk!  _ The doctor suddenly dropped the other man and wiped at his own face. “Good God, you… creature! Was that really necessary?!”  _ Atrocious! _

“Yeah,” McCullum replied with a grunt, a wide smirk tilting his features as he licked his lips and flicked a cigarette butt to the ground. _ _

_ Pig!  _ Jonathan wanted to punch him.

_ “That’s not very becoming of a gentleman, Jonathan,” Elisabeth whispered. _

_ I’m going mad. _

His fists refrained.

“If you’d be so kind.” Jonathan finally said, sensing the human heartbeats stagnate behind them.  _ Yes, watch all you’d like. I’d rather not deal with you tonight.  _ “I’m hoping that our second encounter will be less counterproductive.” He paused. “I’ve a request of you. If you’d allow me to  _ explain,  _ then perhaps you might find yourself a bit more agreeable?”

McCullum sneered. “Yeah, fuck what you say. I’m not here to have crumpets and a cup of tea, you arse.”

“Yes…” Jonathan stepped away as McCullum stood to his full height. Their eyes leveled, and Jonathan suddenly wondered if he’d see the next night. Was it fear? He wasn’t… Well, he wasn’t sure. “Speaking of your exploits, what have you done with the Ascalon Club? Aren’t you afraid they’ll retaliate?”

“Are you asking me questions now like this is some sorta business meeting? Fuck you, but I’m gonna answer you anyway.” McCullum followed Jonathan’s gaze beyond the two mortal men—who now stood in the street—and towards the building. Was he… ignoring them? “Those crusty-arsed leeches had to go; Killed ‘em a few days ago, fed their corpses to the river so there’d be more questions than answers. Some of ‘em, eh… like that Finney, I s’pose, escaped.” He shrugged. “Fitting. Rats are goin’ ta run when their nest’s lit aflame. I’m not worried.”

“You really should be,” Jonathan said.

Snorting in response, McCullum returned his gaze to Jonathan and grit his teeth. His eyes reflected the light of a flame that existed only in his mind’s eye, and Jonathan realized then that McCullum wasn’t willing to let  _ anything  _ go.

Jonathan continued, his voice quieter now. “McCullum, listen to me. I need—” 

“‘I need’!” The hunter took a step closer, his hand hovering over a shotgun strapped to his waist. “Say that one more time, I dare you. I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!”

“Well you  _ did appear  _ to be civil just a moment ago.”

“Civility! Civility, he says! Were you civil with your patients at Pembroke? Were you civil with the chaps in Whitechapel? The Docks? The fuckin’ prissies at the West End? Fuck no! Their blood spatters the walls, you bastard! If you’re gonna say ‘fuck my hypocritical oath’, then I’m goin’ ta say ‘fuck you’.”

“It’s Hippocratic, McCullum,” Jonathan corrected as he slowly reached for something in his jacket: a knife, perhaps? Or maybe a gun?

McCullum continued, his own eyes trained on Jonathan’s every movement. “Only reason I don’t gut you here and now is ‘cause my boys are standing over there, and I can’t guarantee they won’t get hurt.” 

Jonathan smiled cruelly. “How kind.”

“Shut it… So, what was it like?” McCullum questioned as he slowly slid free the shotgun from its holster.

“What do you mean?”

“Turning me, you arse. Did you enjoy it? Have fun makin’ a hunter into the fuckin’ hunted? ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t find it funny.” 

Jonathan opened his mouth to respond as he wrapped his fingers around the grip of his standard-issued pistol. “I didn’t—turn you, I mean.”

“The fuck? I’m not buyin’ that shite.”

“It’s the truth, McCullum, and that returns us to the current matter at hand, the reason I need your precious King Arthur’s blood. It’s vampiric blood, but more importantly, I need—”

_ Fwip!  _

_ POW!  _

_ Fshhh... _

Jonathan stumbled backwards and groaned, his hand dropping the gun in favor of hovering over the quickly-blooming hole in his chest. Lucky. 

_ Badum. _

_ Badum. _

He barely noticed the heartbeats and how they grew closer.

“I warned you,” McCullum said, the shotgun gripped firmly in his hands. “I’m not buying into your shite, Reid. You die tonight.” 

Jonathan took a wary step backwards, and then another, and then another.

“Aw, you gettin’ scared, doctor?”

“No,” Jonathan said, his eyes flicking to the pistol on the ground. It was near McCullum’s feet. Damn. “But I haven’t lied to you. I didn’t turn you.”

McCullum’s lips twitched as he raised the barrel of the shotgun. 

It was a model Jonathan was familiar with.  _ There’s two more shots left before a reload is necessary. Two. Remember. _

“We’re gonna march down this alley. There’s a pavilion nearby that’s out of the way of things, of people, but we’re not going to go at it right here. I’m sure you can be  _ agreeable.  _ Can you, doctor?”

“Of course.” Jonathan straightened, gritting his teeth against the combined efforts of the stinging phosphorus-laced bullets and the residue from the silver stake. This was going to be one hell of a night.

_ “Don’t be scared, Jonathan. After all, you knew this was coming.” _

_ No, she’s gone.  _

_ “Come now, I’m right here.” _

_ Focus! _

“The fuck’s up with your face?” McCullum sneered as he shoved the barrel of the shotgun between Jonathan’s shoulder blades. “Get moving, leech. I ain’t got all day!” 

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders and complied, if only because he knew that it would be inconvenient for both of them if they were to brawl in the middle of the street. It could attract unwanted attention, or worse. 

_ “What could possibly be worse, Jonathan? Me? Hmm? Oh Johnny dear, someone’s here to see you. He says his name is Clarence. Clarence Crossley? Isn’t that your old friend? I remember you mentioning him once or twice, I think. Oh dear… He’s not very happy with you. What did you do? What have you done?” _

_ Leave me alone!  _

_ “What have you done? What? What?”  _

Jonathan allowed himself to be guided slowly through the alleyways. He could sense the two heartbeats trailing them, and honestly? They could watch, for all he cared. “I’m surprised you haven’t shot me, McCullum.” Cold, startling breath brushed over the nape of his neck. It was frighteningly alluring. That is, Jonathan felt for the first time in a long while that he was not the strongest man in the vicinity. It gave him goose flesh; It made him feel  _ alive.  _

“You’re pushin’ your luck, doc. We’re almost there.”

“May I ask where you’re taking me?” Jonathan didn’t flinch as the cold metal bit deeper into his back. 

“Ah, figured we grab a cuppa, maybe two. Why the fuck does it matter?! It’ll do.” 

They arrived in the next few moments, and McCullum shoved Jonathan away from him using the barrel of the gun and shot at the ground in warning. Bits of fractured stone flew up, and the resounding blast echoed from building to building. _BANG!_

_ One shot. _

Jonathan’s lips curved slowly upward.

The square was larger than Jonathan expected, though he hadn’t been exactly sure as to where the other man had been taking him. Had he been here before? The ground was mostly cobblestoned, though patches of finely trimmed grass, flowery bushes and groomed trees surrounded the large oval expanse in a lovely display of greenery. Off to the side, Jonathan noted, was a little white gazebo made of birch. Perhaps this was an outdoor market in the day? Or a park? He’d like to think it was the latter.

Nonetheless, the area was perfect for the grotesque scene that was about to unfold. Jonathan suddenly didn’t want to stain the cobblestones, for the landscape would have made the loveliest photograph.

_ “I’d paint it for you, Jonathan.” _

He turned around, finding that McCullum had already backed several meters away.  _ So the man has some honor after all… or perhaps he simply wants to draw it out? _

There was no more time to ponder.

Jonathan reached for the surgical saw he kept strapped to his waist, his red-tinted eyes focused entirely on his adversary. McCullum did the same, though he retrieved a sword from his hip instead. They were equals, Jonathan finally realized, and they would fight to the death, be it here or later. Who would die this night? Who would triumph?

Who?

He knew the answer.

McCullum suddenly shouted and keeled over, his hands grasping at his stomach as he yowled into the night. The ghoulish shriek made Jonathan’s arm hairs stand up, made him realize he was in  _ deep, deep shit.  _

McCullum disappeared.

Jonathan took a step back, then  _ dove  _ just as the hunter flickered passed him. The doctor skidded in place, jumped aside to avoid another attack, slashed!

Blood sprayed.

Whose?

Shadows plunged from the earth, grasping at any and all flesh like needy, spiked worms of pure energy. They radiated monstrous  _ hunger, hunger, hunger,  _ and they grabbed at McCullum’s legs and spurted blood, but the man only sped away!

_ Like a rabbit. _

_ “Oh no Jonathan, he’s  _ not  _ the prey.”  _

_ Fwoosh! _

_ Slash! _

_ Swipe! _

_ CRASH! _

Jonathan fell to the ground, dashed up at the last second and summoned a spear of blood. It missed McCullum’s head by a millisecond, and finally,  _ finally,  _ the hunter appeared just on top of the gazebo’s pitched roof, and he was  _ laughing.  _ Laughing!

“Enjoying the view, McCullum?”

A sneer was the only response. 

And then a dark grin.

Again, he disappeared. 

Jonathan brought up his hacksaw just as McCullum’s sword sang through the air like a heavenly melody!

_ CLANG! _

_ Crrkkk… ktchng!  _

_ Clink! _

“I have to admit, leech, I  _ am  _ enjoying the view!” McCullum shouted, his eyes wild and tinted with red. Jonathan gasped and jumped backwards.

“You drank the blood! Again!”

“Of course I fuckin’ did! King Arthur was the greatest man who ever lived!” 

A small cut, which weeped steadily from Jonathan’s cheek, slowly knit itself in the time of relief. Jonathan wiped at his skin and grunted. “It’s vampiric blood, McCullum. Of course it will grant you strength! You’re a  _ vampire,  _ for God’s sake!”

“No thanks to you!”

“Listen to me, you imbecile!”  
“No, I don’t think I will!”

Claws suddenly slashed at Jonathan’s neck, barely grazing his flesh as he pulled away just in time. He hissed and shot away, his own eyes wild with the heat of the hunt, the battle, the war. This was no game, and unlike a game it would end finitely—forever, in one way or another.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

The shotgun lifted.

_ BANG! _

It missed._  
_ Jonathan smiled.

Rushing around a metal bench, he slashed out at the hunter, catching the sword’s edge in the teeth of his saw. The action forced the sword to clatter to the ground, and Jonathan grinned at McCullum in accomplishment as he grabbed the shotgun’s barrel. “Stand down.” 

_ Click. _

Desperate eyes.

_ Click. Click! _

_ Clang! _

The shotgun fell to the cobblestones in favor of its owner tackling into Jonathan!

Razor-sharp claws dug into his shoulder.  _ Blasted!  _ The two men—McCullum triumphantly riding the top as Jonathan’s back slammed into the cobblestones in his hardly-masked shock—toppled to the ground.  _ Ah! _

Pain blossomed, red spattered, dribbled, painted.

Jonathan tried to push McCullum off, but the hunter had already pressed his claws into the flesh of the doctor’s neck. “McCullum!” Jonathan said with a shout as he struggled under the weight of the other man. McCullum only pressed harder. “Get… off!”

“Are you serious?”

_CRACK!__  
_ McCullum fell to the side and nursed his bruised jaw. His eyes flashed, fists braced, fangs displayed in a warning, in a _promise_. “Fuck! I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll drain you dry!” 

Jonathan knew those eyes, and those teeth. They were the eyes of the starved and the utensils of a predator. There was no time to flee. “McCull—AH!”

They sunk in like a knife through butter.

The doctor’s struggling was for naught, for the grip was strong.

“G-get off!” Jonathan commanded. His vision flickered.

_ Blood… _

_ I’m losing… _

_ Good God, snap out of it! _

_ This will be you last supper, Judas! _

The gulps were greedy. Jonathan could feel his blood draining, could feel his body weakening with each swallow. 

_ Stop… _

_ Stop! _

“...OFF!”

Tendons and muscles ripped as white-hot spears stabbed through Jonathan, blinded him, made him feel woozy. The push was enough to grant him a mere second, however, and the doctor quickly leaped to his feet and separated himself by more than ten meters. His vision? It was shaky, unreliable, offering him no more than a blurry, hazy cloud of grey. 

Jonathan watched as McCullum rose to his feet and rode that addictive wave of ecstasy, his eyes wide and glossy. It was fascinating to watch. Did Jonathan look like that when..? 

_ “You’re so silly, love. Of course you do.” _

What did he care?

He watched McCullum ride the coattails of the wave, but all Jonathan could think to do was to cover his weeping neck. It was healing, but so very slowly.  _ Hurry! Hurry! _

“Aww…” McCullum drawled, his eyes lidded as he smirked. The sword lay far from the hunter’s feet, but Jonathan realized that it didn’t matter. McCullum had  _ claws, teeth;  _ He was every bit of the monster that Jonathan was. “Gettin’ tired, Reid?”

“I can still fight,” Jonathan replied. His vision swam as black spots danced around him like taunting children.

“I’m sure you can.” 

Jonathan grit his teeth and gathered his energy. This wouldn’t be it. No, he had to fulfill that promise! This was folly! He said as much out loud.

“I don’t really give a flyin’ fuck as to what you think,” McCullum said in response.

Shadows slowly gathered around the hunter’s feet as Jonathan tried to keep his vision focused on McCullum’s face.  _ Don’t look.  _ “I know, but you must believe me. I did not turn you! What would I gain from such a thing? I’m sure if you spoke with the Primate of the Brotherhood, you’ll learn exactly what I told you! King Arthur was not human.” 

The darkness grew more intense. Silent tendrils hid in the hunter’s shadow, prowling in wait for their sire’s command. 

“Talltree? Fuck ‘im. And so what if it’s true?” McCullum finally said, his gaze dark. “I’m not lettin’ you go, Reid, even if I did believe you. You’ve killed too many innocents.”

“I’m not asking you to do that. I only need your assistance—just this once! I’m trying to cure something important!”

“And what? What could be so important that it would need the blood of a King, of all things? It sounds idiotic! And it sounds suspiciously familiar.”

Even Jonathan thought it sounded ridiculous. Maybe it was. He tightened his fists as the shadows coiled in anticipation. “The blood, McCullum. Even a drop will do!”

“There’s none left!” McCullum shouted. “Answer the damn question!”

Jonathan gaped. 

He still had to  _ try. _

_ None? Truly? _

_ Elisabeth… Elisabeth, no. I’m… I’m sorry. _

“I’m attempting to cure vampirism,” Jonathan said slowly.

The hunter suddenly barked a laugh, but it was cut short as Jonathan released his hold over the shadows of the night. They spiked up around McCullum’s feet, wrapped around his limbs, snatched his body and lifted it into the air! The atmosphere grew heavy, the night held its breath.

God, Jonathan was so, so thirsty. He could barely see.

Then the spike drove through McCullum’s stomach. Jonathan’s nostrils flared as the scent of fresh blood rolled over him and made his skin crawl with delight. 

_ Thirsty. _

“Sir!” a voice shouted from nearby.

“Geoffrey!” another joined.

_ Plat, plat, plat, plat. _

Jonathan could barely register the approaching boots, or even the cocking of guns. His eyes greedily watched the blooming puddle. Delicious. Want.  _ Need. _

And then McCullum collapsed to the ground, the shadows having done their dirty deed. Jonathan kneeled and gasped, the smell overwhelming him. 

_ Feed. _

_ Eat. _

_ Devour. It is your nature. _

_ No,  _ thought Jonathan.  _ Now’s not the time.  _

_ It is always the time. A starving hunter is a weakened one.  _

_ Indulge. _

He did not. He could hear the approaching footsteps. With a hiss of anger—for that was what he felt—Jonathan forced himself to his feet and leaped to a nearby balcony, then a rooftop. Collapsing in the shadows, he gasped and clutched at his neck, his chest, his everywhere_._ _I’m a right mess, aren’t I? _

_ “Oh Jonathan, you’ve failed me.”  _

_ No. There’s still a chance! _

_ “No, my love. There is not.” _

_ Elisabeth! _

_ Wait! _

Voices rose up from below. Jonathan didn’t have the strength to ignore them.

“Geoffrey—” Captain Wilson began.

“Stay away from me!” Pained. Disoriented.  _ Hurting. _

Jonathan heard the distinct sound of someone falling hard on their arse.

“Andrew!” McCullum shouted finally. “I can’t… stop myself. Stay back.” The please was unspoken.

“Geoffrey…” 

“Why don’t you do your fuckin’ job? You’re supposed to exterminate the vermin, not follow it around like some doe-eyed…” McCullum didn’t finish. Couldn’t? 

Jonathan swallowed his pride and continued his retreat into the shadows, the voices steadily growing quieter and quieter. 

“Priwen deserves better,” he heard the distant voice of McCullum say.

“Priwen  _ needs  _ you,” Wilson said.

“Fuckin’ liar, you are.”

* * *

The gloomy bricked walls of Pembroke Hospital rose up to greet him like a dying mother consoling her mourning child, and the fog whispered through the shattered and boarded windows, its silent breath claiming, lurking, owning. The site’s foreboding history existed mostly in the dark of night; During the day, the abandoned hospital was only another victim of a plague four years past. Pembroke was quiet. It was still. Lonely.

Jonathan was uncertain.

He jumped—dragged himself, more like—to his old office’s balcony, left a bloody handprint on the splintered door as he entered, and collapsed on the grimy mattress with a hefty groan.  _ Close your eyes.  _ He couldn’t. His tired eyes stared up at the ceiling, and suddenly he wondered if it had all been for naught. Had it?

His mind wandered and discovered new ways to taunt and torture him. 

_ Masochist. _

_ Edgar died here. He deserved it, I’m sure, but now I wonder what would have happened had I stayed. Would Edgar still be here—alive? And would I still have a true place here? In London?  _

_ Would things have been much different? Would I still feel this way? _

No one answered him.

_ McCullum’s old life ended here too. I only wish it were my fault. Maybe then I’d feel guilty. _

_ Back in Scotland, Elisabeth had asked me to find a cure. I had been so desperate for answers, but now I wonder… Did I jump too quickly on a potential solution? I’ve trapped myself.  _ It was a promise made, and it would be a promise unfulfilled. 

Jonathan felt his eyes grow hot, and he quickly blinked in order to rid himself of the embarrassment.

_ “You don’t get to cry, Johnny.” _

_ Mary...? Where has Elisabeth gone? _

_ “She’s dead, as am I, as are you. Our hearts suffered through life, and they suffer through death as well.” _

_ I feel like I’m going mad. I hear these voices as though they are real. They are not. I know this now. _

_ “Yes Johnny.” _

_ I’m thirsty, Mary. I’m so very thirsty, and tired. _

_ “Then drink, brother. It is in your nature; It is in your blood. Sup from the sweet blood of life. Only then may you rest—eternally.”  _

Jonathan rose from the bed like a ghoul from the grave. He needed answers, and where were they?

The suitcase. 

_ I apologise, Mr. Hampton. _

* * *

In the vicinity of Sean Hampton’s shelter, Jonathan almost lost control.

He shuddered in pleasure as fear spiked the air like a fine spice in a cocktail, and he reveled in the scream that tore through the night, the woman weeping, the baby crying, the men rushing away to “call the coppers!” They would not. Fear drove them to slither back through the alleyways and  _ away from here.  _ Where were they—the screams? At the shelter?

_ Feast. _

_ No. Not yet.  _

That other part of himself raged in protest. His body ached, his wounds hardly closing. He’d lost so much blood. He  _ needed  _ it. 

It was not Jonathan who had caused such a ruckus. In his blind hunger, he knew that even if it wasn't him, it would be very soon. 

Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty.

_ “Drink, brother of mine.”  _

He wanted to dance in a shower of red and hold out his golden goblet to capture stray drops of scarlet!

One of the fleeing caught sight of Jonathan skulking in a nearby alleyway. The man paled and fled, his hysterical shouts louder and louder the further away he ran. Jonathan did not give chase.

Thirsty, thirsty.

Pale flesh, monstrous face.

Lengthened fangs, ragged breath, hunched back.

_ Monster, they call me. Monster I am. _

_ Damn it! Focus. You’re here for your belongings, and then you’re leaving. _

_ Feast. _

_ No! _

He’d have his damned cure even if it killed him. 

_ “Oh Johnny, I do hope it kills you.”  _

The crying from not-so-far away returned him to reality. Sean Hampton’s shelter!

Jonathan left the alley rather quickly, for he was afraid that if he lingered too long in one spot he wouldn’t wake until blood soaked his clothes and the sun burned his flesh. He rounded the next corner to find the yard of the shelter to be deserted. A woman could be heard weeping nearby, and he strained against his  _ need for blood  _ and his want to leave as quickly as possible.  _ Stop.  _ He did. Jonathan halted just in front of the static wall that was the door and peered inside with eagle eyes. “Hampton?”

_ Feed. _

“Hampton?” Jonathan called again.

Blood wafted around him like a cruel tease. Gasping, Jonathan stepped back and held his mouth.  _ Stop. Stop! _

It did.

He waited a long moment before he straightened. “It’s Dr. Reid, Hampton,” he said. “What has happened?” Almost as if in reply, the static wall disappeared, and Jonathan took a hesitant step forward. No resistance. “Hampton, really. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Evidence of a Priwen raid littered the shelter, though not a guard could be found. Crossbow bolts were jammed in the walls, burned papers littered the floors, and copious amounts of dirt and blood were tracked all over the warehouse.

“Reid…” someone breathed from nearby. 

Jonathan glanced towards an opened door off to the right. The office? His nostrils flared as he approached.  _ Focus. Stay… focused! _

_ But that aroma… _

_ Feed. _

_ So thirsty… _

When he saw the bloodied man slumped over the table, he knew what had happened. Hampton shifted at Jonathan’s approach and grabbed weakly at his chest as if to say  _ I don’t want to die;  _ however, the stake shoved through his heart said otherwise. It wasn’t far enough in, Jonathan realized, but it was over no matter what happened next. 

The Sad Saint was living on borrowed time.

Hampton shifted his pained gaze to Jonathan’s in fear.  _ Please. _

Jonathan could barely see. It was grey. Everything was grey, and Hampton lay before him like a sacrificial lamb. It was tempting. It was… 

_ Please.  _

Time was not wasted. Jonathan embraced Hampton with rabid hunger, and when he drank his fill he shoved the stake further in until it burst through to the other side. Hampton made no noise, and then he died.

The doctor stared, wiped his mouth, and cleared his throat. He stood in silent vigil for two minutes.

_ Goodbye. _

When Jonathan finally made his way through the quiet shelter and up the silent stairs, he caught a stray scent on the wind. His eyebrows skyrocketed.  _ Milton Hooks?  _

He ignored it for now.

The suitcase was where Jonathan had left it, and he grabbed it and returned to a cot nearby. Slowly, he unclasped the snaps, flipped it open, and gazed within.  _ Was I incorrect? Was this entire trip a mistake?  _ He was afraid of the answer.

Inside, and nestled against basic lab equipment, sat  _ Thomas Knopf: an essay.  _ Jonathan retrieved it and flipped it open to a bookmarked page, gazing at the notes he’d hastily scribbled in the margins. The one fateful page—number 382; near the end—shone up at him like a heavenly beacon. The text was as follows:

> Professor Knopf was a delightful colleague of mine for several decades, and his loss was a hard blow for both the advancement of science and the study of vampirism. Although I may not have shared many of his views of the world, I would be hard pressed to deny that his experiments and findings were absolutely astounding. Unfortunately, my other colleagues did not appreciate his otherworldly discoveries being broadcasted as if they were established workings of the world. Of course, I myself knew that they were indeed, but others were not so enlightened. Professor Knopf died before his findings could be published, and I think I may now know the cause of such a sudden, catastrophic halt to life. Therefore, I find it unfortunate that I cannot publish this essay myself, but I have entrusted the draft to my dear friend Lady Elisabeth Englewood. I hope that in doing so she may be able to finish what Professor Knopf was unable to; or, I hope that she could at least find a scientist who is as skilled as Knopf once was to complete his work. Lady Englewood, these are the notes left behind by my dear colleague. I hope that they prove to be useful, and I hope that they are true to their word. Best of luck to you. As attached:
> 
> Curing Bloodlust:

  * > Ingredients:

    * > (1) drop of blood from a king of pure heart (ex: King Arthur)

    * > (1) drop of blood from a virgin

    * > (1) drop of blood from the recipient

    * > (4) large pieces of angelica root

    * > (1) large piece of wood (any type)

    * > (2) vials of holy water

    * > (1) unblemished clove of garlic

    * > (5) mg of pure silver (any form)

    * > (1) plate of mortal food (plate must be silver)

    * > (1) silver spoon

    * > (1) silver cross

    * > (1) Holy Bible

    * > Optional: (1) Handkerchief

  * > Procedure:

    * > Pre-cook your chosen dish of mortal food. Set it aside.

    * > Evaluate the purity of the holy water by testing it with undead flesh. If it does not melt within 0.157 seconds, gather a new sample.

    * > Light a fire using the angelica root and a piece of wood. 

    * > Wash the clove of garlic thoroughly. Mince.

    * > Place a pot of medium size just above the fire. Add more angelica root as necessary to keep the fire burning.

    * > Mix the blood, vials of holy water, 5mg of pure silver and minced garlic into the pot, stir and let boil.

    * > Hold the silver cross in your left hand and the Holy Bible in the other. Read aloud as follows:

      * > 1 Corinthians 6:12

      * > 1 Corinthians 15:32

      * > Proverbs 23:2

      * > Proverbs 28:7

    * > Set down the cross and the Holy Bible. Stir the pot and put out the fire. Use the silver spoon to scoop the contents of the pot and pour them over the dish of mortal food. Do this until at least ¾ of the mixture is utilized.

    * > Have the recipient eat the food. It will taste horrid to their tongue, but every bite must be taken.

  * > Results:

    * > The recipient should no longer be reliant on blood. Instead, they shall be able to eat as a human would. For the first dose, there is a failure rate of 76%. Failure may include minimal chance of death, irreparable brain damage, temporary internal hemorrhaging, upset stomach, and slight nasal discharge. 

  * > Additional notes:

    * > The recipient must repeat this process at least twice every seven months. Failure to do so may result in madness or a return to blood reliance. (Harper 382)

Jonathan sneered and snapped the book shut. Had he truly been so excited at the prospect of a cure that he’d missed the notes underneath the procedure? It was inconceivable. It was…

It was probably why Elisabeth had so readily dismissed it. How would one obtain enough blood from a king of pure heart? And for all eternity?

_ “Oh Jonathan, my love, you’re such a fool.” _

_ I was trying to fulfill your promise! I was trying to… _

_ “Dearest?” _

The doctor hung his head and slammed the book into the floor with a  _ PLAP! _

Using his expertise, he  _ could _ attempt to modify the ingredients to better suit him, but finding an acceptable replacement could take decades of tedious experimentation, and did he have the patience?

To be honest, he was most afraid of one thing. It was this:

What if the entire procedure proved to be false? 

Jonathan had never heard of a Professor Thomas Knopf; He’d never heard of a researcher that publicly studied supernatural phenomena  _ and  _ believed what he was researching. This experiment could be false, and the only way to find out would be to perform it! Suddenly, he didn’t want to.

_ It has to work. _

Had it all been for naught?

No.

No!

_ “Jonathan!” _

_ Leave me alone! I will not tolerate apparitions haunting my mind! You are not  _ real!  _ You are a figment! _

_ “I am more real than this game you’re playing, my love.” _

Jonathan clutched at his hair and shouted.

And then he remembered Sean Hampton. 

And then he remembered Milton Hooks.

Bloodlust reared its ugly head. Jonathan was about to have  _ fun. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the Bible verses are NOT random. They actually mean something that's relevant to it all. Go ahead and look them up if you feel like it!


	6. Captains don't do that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you waited, thanks! If you're new, hello!
> 
> It took me a while to get this chapter out due to both writer's block and the holidays. Unfortunately, it's probably going to take the same amount of time to get out chapter 7 for the same reason. That is, the holidays, college finals, and family vacation definitely get in the way. For that, I'm going to say sorry in advance, but please stick around! I'm excited to get to the finale of this adventure, and I hope you are too!
> 
> As always, I love to hear your opinions, comments, and feedback. Please leave a review! And enjoy.

_ Andrew remembered a time, not long ago, when he blindly believed the words of the man who’d returned from that night at the hospital. “I’m fine,” Geoffrey had said. _

_ It was two years ago, and Geoffrey had been ‘ill’. The first sign was this: a young recruit had strangely vanished from his cot. Andrew should have known better, but hunters die all the time. It could have been anything. _

_ Then the cook’s apprentice from building two disappeared during a run up to _ _Geoffrey’s quarters. The captain refused to see Andrew that night, claiming illness, and suddenly Andrew had a sickening growth in his gut that only grew larger with each night and each hunt. Why did Geoffrey’s flesh hold a pallor, and why did the skin under his eyes claim dark half-moons when the man behaved healthy during moments where he thought he was alone? Why did he begin to refuse to eat with the crew, or to hunt with his closest mates?_

_ It happened on the night James decided to treat their captain to supper. After some prodding, Andrew decided to tag along. Andrew had heard from James that getting Geoffrey to agree to the entire matter had been as difficult as moving a mountain. _

_ It was supposed to be a quiet event for only those closest to the captain: James, Andrew, and the Foley brothers. It started out alright, with everyone ordering drinks. Andrew had ignored the untouched water glass in front of Geoffrey, instead favoring a friendly bicker with Nicolas Foley — the younger and rowdier of the two brothers. Then the barmaid cut her finger on a chipped glass. Geoffrey’s nostrils had suddenly flared, and when he stood up with a start his glass had tumbled over the bar and shattered on the floor. _

_ No one said a thing, because they’d all seen it. Even as Geoffrey flicked his gaze from man to man, Andrew knew that Priwen would never be the same. No one stopped Geoffrey as he left. Andrew supposed it was, at least for himself, his own form of paying homage to the best damned leech hunter in all of British history. _

_ Andrew had to admit one thing at least. That is, Geoffrey looked pretty damn good with fangs. _

_ Don’t think. _

_ Sometimes, Andrew wondered if he’d done the right thing in letting him go, if maybe he’d smile more often if McCullum now laid in a grave six feet under. _

_ Last night was something else. Painful. Awful. It was what he needed, right? _

_ Don’t think. _

_ He wouldn’t. _

The temporary homebase, set in a few abandoned warehouses in the East End Docks near the Thames, smelled like dried blood, old piss, and rotten meat. It was bloody awful, but it was safe from Scotland Yard, and for Priwen that made it perfect.

Captain Andrew Wilson awoke with a start, his glassy eyes staring up through a hole in the rusted ceiling. It was night again; the age-old hunt began anew. 

_ Fuckin’ Geoffrey. _

Andrew sat up and glanced over the railing near his cot. A couple of his boys sat ‘round an overturned crate downstairs, shoutin’, yellin’, and drinkin’ near a fire lit with one of the last matches from the old storage crates. Supper — just like always. “Hey!”

One of the men looked up, waved, and beckoned him. “Andrew!” shouted Albert Richardson. “You just about missed us! We’re going to head out, Edward and I, and...” 

“Glenn,” a younger man said with a grunt.

“Yeah. Are you going to come with us?”

The captain considered this, thought better of it, and shook his head. “Nah, but I’ll join ya fer supper. Hold on, let me get my trousers.” 

“Wha’, ya dun wanna show yer weanie to the rest of the crew?” another man Andrew recognized as Carson Murphy goaded. “I think James here would like that.”

James whipped his head around and shook his fork aggressively. “Fuck off, ya arse!”

“Yeah, fuck off ‘im, Carson,” Andrew said as he hopped into his trousers. _ Thump, thump! _A little louder, he added, “I’m comin’ down!” In just a few moments, he’d joined them around the crate and snatched the plate of potato wedges offered to him by James. “So, who’s out already?”

“Sergeant Charleston and his group,” James said.

“And Nicolas,” Carson said proudly of his little brother. “He’s on a streak, ya know — took out four leeches on his own yesterday.”

Albert coughed into his cup. “I’ve done better!”

“We all know that ain’t true!”

  
“Shut it!”

For a few moments, all that could be heard was the clinking of forks, the quiet crackle of the fire, and the chewing of mouths. Glenn cleared his throat. “Andrew, I spent some time at the West End base yesterday, and I saw, well…” 

“I was gonna say somethin’ about that,” James interjected. “Someone scratched out McCullum’s name on the captain’s board. Right travesty, that is.” 

Carson snarled. “McCullum! He’s a traitor _ and _a bastard! He doesn’t deserve a place on that board.”

Andrew set down his plate and leaned backwards on the stool. “Shuttup,” he said as he snapped his eyes to Carson. Immediately, the other man was quiet. “Albert, I’m goin’ ta have you go with Glenn, Richardson, an’ Oliver tonight walkin’, er … the East Docks, okay? Just the streets between the Turtle an’ the barges, nothin’ too much.” He ignored the stares. _ Fuck ‘em. _

“What about you, sir?” 

The captain shifted and glanced at James. It was clear that the other man knew. “James and I’ve got some business.” He huffed. “Oi! Don’t look at me like that, you arsehole!”

Carson quickly averted his eyes.

“It ain’t like that, an’ even if it was you better mind your own business,” Andrew finished. “The other groups can go about the same routes as yesterday. I don’t have enough time ta sort ‘em all out.” He stood up and hurriedly shoveled the rest of the potatoes into his mouth. “James?”

“Yeah.” Lieutenant James stood as well.

Andrew rushed to grab his crossbow and a reliable shotgun from upstairs, and then his coat, and then his shoes, but before the two could head out, a messenger boy — a new recruit, Andrew surmised — rushed in through a side door of the warehouse. “Sir! Captain!” 

“What? What the fuck do you want?!”

James raised a brow. The other men continued to eat silently. 

But the recruit didn’t miss a beat. Andrew guessed that maybe that new training regiment was actually getting _ something _done. He’d have to thank James for that some time. 

“Sir.” The messenger straightened. “Sergeant Wright sent me to tell ya that there’s somethin’ goin’ down near the night asylum. He said it could be Hampton, but he wasn’t sure...” 

“Well shite,” Andrew said, hissing. “James!”

* * *

The red dance of death. 

The siren’s deadly song.

Hampton’s blood had not been enough, had not been the right _ kind. _

Jonathan had already left Hampton’s night asylum behind in his hurry, his thirst. _ Milton, Milton. What are you doing, Mr. Hooks? Where are you going? _

The siren’s song grew louder, called him, beckoned him, whispered sweetly into Jonathan’s ear: _ drink until you can drink no more. _ Milton Hooks, however, proved to be quite the elusive prey. _ Mr. Hooks, _ Jonathan thought, his mind fuzzy and his vision a mess of grey, grey, grey. _ Mr. Hooks. Come here, Mr. Hooks. _

Blood. Another drop of blood.

The dirty alleyways outside of the shelter grew darker and darker the further the doctor stalked. He barely noticed the trash, the urine, the feces, the vomit.

All he could think was this: _ blood. _

_ “Take it quicker, Johnny.” _

Around the corner, Jonathan bared his canines. Nothing. He continued.

The next alley was much the same, and soon Jonathan found himself facing the night shelter yet again. The odor grew stronger, and _ good god _ was it so very, very pleasant. He wanted it, needed it, _ craved _ it so much that his gums ached and his eyes struggled to stay open. _ Where are you, Milton? _

He found the dark-skinned man standing under a spotlight just in front of Hampton’s shelter. The thirst grew stronger at the sight of veins echoing and heart pumping, but he did not yet move, for the air was awfully still. “Mr. Hooks,” Jonathan said quietly. “I have you.”

“You do,” Hooks replied, something gripped firmly in his large hands. It was a stake, and it was stained with blood. 

_ Blood. _

_ Delicious, beautiful blood. _

_ “Drink, my sweet, sweet brother. Drink him like you drank me.” _

Jonathan did not move. He did not trust himself.

“Dr. Reid,” Hooks grunted. “You’re a vampire.”

The doctor only smiled, barely resisting the call of the song simply for the pleasure of the game. Oh, how he so _ dearly _enjoyed it. His eyes narrowed. “You knew this already, Mr. Hooks.”

“Aye.” A shift of weight from boot to boot, a tightened grip, a rustle of fabric. “I know what you did to my Pippa, and all those other poor blokes.” He swallowed as Jonathan stepped closer. “I’m going to kill you, Reid. I’m going to stake you through your deceitful, bleedin’ heart.”

“You killed Hampton,” Jonathan stated.  
“You finished him.” Hooks’s breath was shaky, but his eyes were steel. The cold press of the shelter’s wall to his back was enough to send chills down his spine. _No goin’ back. No turnin’ away. _

“He was dying already,” the doctor said as he stalked closer, and closer, and closer. “I simply offered him what he most desired.” 

“Bollocks.” 

Jonathan was already standing over the other, his cold breath brushing over Hooks’s flushed skin. “Really, Mr. Hooks,” he said as he wrenched the stake from the man’s hand, his voice no louder than a breath. _ Clrkklikik... _ The stake clattered to the ground. “Tell me…” 

_ “Jonathan, my dearest,” Elisabeth breathed. “Ravish him.” _

Hooks swallowed, and yet he met those inhuman, cat-like eyes with ferocious strength. The red was intoxicating, horrifying, sickening, and it swirled like a vortex of death and misfortune. He found himself swallowing again. _ Pippa. _“Your kind spreads disease,” he whispered. “And… Your end’s drawin’ near, Mr. Reid. You’d best remember that.” Fangs brushed against Hooks’s neck like a soft, tender caress. He remained still, unrelenting. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.” And then Jonathan bit.

* * *

The leech, Sean Hampton, was a bloke Andrew didn’t entirely trust, but the poor bastard had proved himself to be useful a few times before, and so the captain had kept him around for a little while longer. And besides, bein’ what he was — a Skal playin’ at priesthood, that is — Andrew was certain that Hampton wouldn’t be much of a problem in the near future. He did have to admit, to himself at least, that Hampton _ was _ mildly reasonable and even a bit likeable. 

_ Careful, _ he could almost hear the old Geoffrey say. _ Yer lettin’ it get too close. _

When he and Lieutenant James Cook arrived to the shelter, he supposed it didn’t matter anyways. Hampton, the poor bloke, was dead in a puddle of his own black blood. _ Maybe _ , Andrew thought, _ it’s for the best. _

The two met the patrol that called them a few minutes later. They talked for a bit, but Andrew sent them on their way despite their insistence. He knew who’d done the finishing blow to Hampton, he was certain, and that bastard of a leech was _ his _. 

Andrew met James’s eyes. “Let’s find the bastard.” 

It turned out that they wouldn’t have to search long. From outside the shelter, there came a groan, and then a soft _ thump! _The captain gestured for his lieutenant to stand to the side — James hid behind a table covered in boxes — as he lifted his crossbow and squatted beside a cabinet along the wall.

The door opened.

A shadow loomed.

_ Click. _

_ Shhhffffft. _

_ Click. _

_ Shhffffffffft. _

_ Click. _

_ Click. _

It stopped.

James’s breath suddenly went short.

Andrew didn’t dare look.

He heard the cry, knew who it was, and dared_ . Damn it all to hell! _ He stood, and the shadow loomed before him, saturated in blood. James? Where was James? “Leech!” The shadow grinned, revealing canines stained in crimson, and yet Andrew did not stand down, wouldn’t. _ C’mon, James. Come on! _

It worked, or maybe it was only luck, but the shadow suddenly reared back and let out a choked howl. Andrew caught sight of James slumped against the wall, a crossbow in his hand, and the captain _ grinned. _They weren’t pushovers, and Reid was about to learn that. Andrew, at least, would be happy to teach him.

With a clear opening, Andrew shot around the unmoving Reid and regrouped with James. “You alright?”

At first, James didn’t respond, but then he pursed his lips and slowly stood as Reid turned to face them. “Just … caught me off guard.” 

Blood dribbled down James’s arm, but Andrew knew James like he knew his right hand; The bloke would fight until his last breath. Andrew gave him credit for that, at least.

The demon which stood before them was as still as a corpse. Reid didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. It was… Andrew brought in a steady breath and raised his crossbow. Their eyes met — monstrous to human. He felt James step closer to his side as the click of a shotgun’s barrel snapping closed resounded from wall to wall.

A woman’s soft whimpers echoed from a hidden room. Perhaps he shouldn’t have looked. When Andrew realized his mistake and quickly returned his gaze to the leech, Reid was gone. _ Gone? _No. 

_ Fwwip! _

_ POW! _

The shotgun blast left Andrew’s ears ringing, and he stumbled to the side, caught off guard.

James suddenly fell over with a _ crash! _“An—” 

“James!” Having recovered, the captain whipped around. Alone. He was… “Hey!”

The shelter walls began to close in. A pounding entered his ears, but he kept his gaze focused, his body oriented, his crossbow steady. 

_ Click. Click. _

_ Shhf! _

Andrew dodged the deadly swipe, rammed into the floor, rolled away! _ Ah-! _

_ Plip. _

_ Plip. _

Small rivulets rolled along the downslope of his arm, and his weapon remained trained on any and all shadows, his vision flicking from side to side. “Reid!” Andrew shouted. “You coward!”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

The reply was quiet, soft, and … directly in Andrew’s ear. He tried to roll away, but the grip was sudden and clamped on like steel. The struggle was brief, and Andrew turned to the shadow with gritted teeth. He shook his arm once, twice, thrice. No dice. “Fuck you.”

Reid stood before him like an ungodly creation of Hades, his fangs revealed in a bloody, toothy grin. “Is that an offer?”

Andrew swallowed.

The grip grew stronger, and again Andrew was reminded to _ get away. _

_ Tug. Tug. _

_ Pull! _

Nothing.

Reid’s shadow loomed over him. It was awful, it was … alluring. It was then that Andrew stopped struggling, and it was then that James attacked! The grip suddenly released, and Andrew tumbled onto his arse in a daze. He scrambled back, blinked, and shot his crossbow at the leaping shadow. Someone shouted.

Who?

Someone _ screamed. _

Leaping to his feet, Andrew reloaded his crossbow and darted across the room to the heap in front of the door. Blood was splattered from its neck to its chest, and Andrew realized…

He realized…

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said.

James rolled over, released the bloodied stake from his left hand, and drew in two wheezy breaths. “You’re a … right arsehole, y’know.” His right hand pulled away from the bolt buried in his chest, and Andrew quickly looked away. “He … got away.” James turned and spat out a red wad.

“You staked him,” Andrew replied. The words were hollow as he looked back at the other. “McCullum would have been more careful.”

“You … talkin’ ‘bout … you or … me?”

The captain’s hand grabbed the bolt buried in his lieutenant’s chest. He grit his teeth, began to jerk it up, and stopped himself. “I…” His hand pulled away, and yet he still met James’s gaze. “Damn it.”

James stared up at Andrew. Something in those eyes flashed, but it wasn’t hatred, nor was it sadness, or betrayal. “Hunters … die all the time.” The lieutenant’s voice grew quiet near the end. 

Andrew looked away and stood up, his fingernails biting into his palms. “Yeah.” _ But not in this way, and not by the hand of their… _ He was going to _ fuckin’ murder _that damned leech, if not for Geoffrey, then for James.


End file.
